Shivered Bones
by Elialys
Summary: "To say you've experienced a trauma is an understatement. You need to process what you've endured over the past two months." Post Marionette story, in which Olivia's trauma from her time Over There is actually addressed. P/O. Part 10 added on 02/09/16
1. I

**Disclaimer:** Fringe owns my heart for the rest of my life, but I do not own Fringe.

**Spoilers**: This goes off canon after 3x09 Marionette.

**Rating**: T (will switch to M)

**A/N**: I've been working on this for a month now. Posting it on our beloved show's 2nd anniversary feels appropriate.

The story itself is complete, although still in the work. It will be 6 parts long, because (GASP) it's huge. I've been rewatching Fringe, and what can I say, there is just something special about Marionette and the P/O angst that resulted from it. Furthermore, I was always a bit disappointed by the fact that Olivia's ordeal was so swiftly 'brushed off', considering all the things she was put through during her time Over There. This is how I deal, combining angst, UST, and PTSD. EXCITING! :D Thank you to **Meg** for her help. Enjoy ;)

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**SHIVERED BONES**

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**I.**

* * *

Astrid first points out the obvious.

"How do you even begin to make amends for something like this?"

Her tone matches her demeanor. She's pale, her eyes reddened and bloodshot; she was still crying by the time Walter and Peter reached the hospital, a short while ago. There was a smile on her face then, quivery, but there. Her relief was genuine as she quickly recollected how Olivia had emerged from the tank.

The elation is gone; so is her relief. Any good feeling she might have had seems to have been replaced by its perfect opposite. Her question is the first thing any of them says since the doctor left, a minute ago. He left them standing in silence, trying to process what they were just told.

_Signs of abuse. Needle tracks and scarring on her arms, some old, some very recent. Bruised chest and puncture mark seem to indicate the use of adrenaline on her heart earlier that day. Tests being run on her blood to insure nothing harmful is left in her system_.

Eight weeks. Fifty-six days. Two whole months, and none of them knew.

None of them knew.

"Yes, I somehow doubt homemade pies will be much help, in this case" Walter says quietly, without sarcasm. "Although if you do feel the urge to bake in the upcoming days, I will gladly help with the consumption."

In some part of his mind, Peter knows he should say something, call out his father for being tactless, but that part of him, like most of him, is...distant.

Muffled, irrelevant, useless.

Walter isn't even mocking Astrid's tendency to over-bake when overwhelmed, but they cannot afford to make light of the situation in any way at the moment.

Not now, not ever.

Peter doesn't call him out on it. He remains silent, the way he's been ever since the paralysis wore off, saved for the times he had no other choice but to speak. To Broyles, to Walter. To _her_. He's too shell-shock for speech. Acid burns at the back of his throat; he's been tasting bile from the moment he became able to swallow again, a discomfort that isn't merely physiological.

Shame and guilt started growing inside of him as he sat frozen in that armchair, until they swallowed him whole. He'd been stripped naked, left raw and exposed, made a fool, an absolute, sickening _fool_ of himself. Latching onto anger in that train station was easy. Anger was all that was left. Now that this feeling is gone, too, he's got nothing.

He's empty.

"_Is one of you named Peter?"_ The doctor had asked. Upon half-raising his hand to answer the query, the man smiled reassuringly, mirroring his words about Olivia, and how she will be alright. "_She said your name a few times. You'll be allowed in very soon, one at a time._"

She's blissfully ignorant, unaware that the man she's been calling for in her daze is also the person who betrayed her the most.

Eight weeks, and they didn't know.

He didn't know.

How do you begin to make amends for something like this?

…

The truth is, she can barely stand to be in her apartment.

Everywhere Olivia looks, she sees him; _them_.

Last night, she was so focused on washing everything washable that she didn't truly notice all the other signs, these other proofs of her stolen life. When she'd first come back to her apartment after leaving the hospital, she'd seen that her mail was opened and that some of her belongings had been moved, but she hadn't thought much about it. Details, all of it; insignificant details, compared to the thrill she felt at simply being back, being home, alive.

Breathing.

So what if there was an old message from Peter on her answering machine, left less than ten days ago, telling _her_ he would be there to pick her up in twenty minutes? Of course they'd interacted, _she_ had lived her life for two months. That was okay; _fine_, really. Lincoln and Charlie had picked her up a couple of times during her weeks Over There, hadn't they?

Olivia hadn't slept with _her_ boyfriend, though.

Maybe she should have. Maybe she should have pinned Frank to _her_ bed, and made him forget about the breakdown, about the little inconsistencies he seemed to notice. Isn't it what _she_ had done with Peter? Fucked his brain out, so he wouldn't care if she laughed too much or suddenly hated the taste of alcohol? Plus, the laughter and the smiles weren't all that bad.

Less intense was good, refreshing, _exciting_, even.

No, Olivia didn't notice all the other details, on that first night; granted, it would have been hard for her to see anything at all, curled up as she'd been against her washing machine.

She only moved when one of the machines beeped, washer or dryer, forcing herself up to her feet just long enough to switch the laundry. She'd dumped every freshly clean batch onto the ground, right next to the heap of tainted clothes, so that several times, she ended up rewashing the same items over and over again.

With the exceptions of those briefs episodes when she made herself get up, or that one time she went to the kitchen to grab her whiskey bottle –miraculously untouched, she'd stayed on the ground, right where she first broke down.

Her tears had long stopped coming, or she was too far gone to even feel wet streaks on her face. At the very least, the sobs had subsided. She had let the vibrations of the machine carry her through this endless night, numbing her entire body and soul, until she was nothing but a cold, empty shell.

Upon coming home tonight after her confrontation with Peter in that garden, the last lingering traces of her denial gone for good, Olivia sees everything, every sign. Even what she doesn't see, she seeks. Armed with a trash bag, she roams her apartment, searching for these things that don't belong.

_One of these things is not like the others; one of these things just doesn't belong._

At first, she's looking for traces of _her_, and there are plenty of these to be found. Olivia guesses the FBI already combed the place when her alternate was on the run, looking for obvious evidence that might lead them to _her_, but they couldn't see what she sees. Having another set of memories in her head and some leftovers from her double's personality makes her uniquely perceptive to such things.

Every note pinned to her fridge, she trashes without reading; she throws avocados out, even though they feel ripe to the touch, and knows they would taste rich. Cereals she doesn't like, junk food she hasn't eaten in years, cans of soup she would never have bought; everything goes.

Her fridge is filled with take-out boxes that are too recent to be her own. She recognizes Mr. Iyers' chicken tikka masala, and she throws that away with a bit too much force, orange sauce plastering the inside of the bag. She briefly allows herself to mourn a food she will never eat again.

She's moved on to the bathroom when she becomes aware of Peter's lingering presence, too. Rationally, she should have expected it after finding his sweater and his MIT shirt in the wash, along with a couple of boxers. Unfortunately, rationality has become hard to achieve, these past few days.

She finds his shampoo in the shower.

The brand is generic, but it's a product for men, from the color to the shape of the bottle; she doesn't even have to open it and breathe in a waft of its scent to know the bottle is his.

Almost against her better judgment, she gets another bag, then, a cheap plastic one, in which she starts putting his things. The shampoo, the clothes, a couple of DVD boxes that look too battered to be new, a pair of shoes, his shaving cream.

Other items, such as their toothbrushes and the half-empty box of condoms she finds in her nightstand's drawer, she throws in the trash.

_One of these things just doesn't belong_.

As she roams her apartment again and again, ridding her place of hints of _her_, and him, Olivia gets the nagging feeling that she has become that thing that doesn't belong.

…

Even after more than two years spent as a _Civilian Consultant_, Peter doesn't feel at ease walking through the FBI's headquarters. If at first, it had something to do with his previous occupation and his desire to stay as far away as possible from the federal system, the reasons behind his unease have changed.

Today, he blames it on the looks he gets.

The Fringe Division isn't what you would call 'big'; compared to some of the other agencies that occupy this very building, their operation is ridiculously small. Only a few people working with them are aware of what they are truly dealing with –alternate universes and dopplegangers, for one thing.

Yet, judging by the way some of these agents stare at Peter as he walks to Broyles' office, they know just enough to feel the right to judge him.

Peter walks on, head high and jaw clenched, looking straight ahead, resigned to the fact that 'this' will take a while to blow over. Considering some of the other aspects of 'this', being judged by a couple of smug people is the least of his worries.

He knocks, entering the office without awaiting a say-so, eager to put an end to the stares anyway. Broyles is sitting at his desk, from which he offers Peter his trademark look, stern and unreadable.

"Bishop," he greets him, and there's an ominous quality to his tone Peter dislikes right away.

His discomfort intensifies, as it dawns on him that he has never been in Broyles' office without Olivia before.

Not that her absence by his side is surprising.

"Why am I here, exactly?" he asks, his voice harsher than he intended it to be, but he can't exactly help it. Broyles merely blinks at him, and Peter sighs. "You don't usually request my presence in your office. Usually, I just go wherever my father is needed."

In other words, wherever Olivia asks him to go. The perfect sidekick, docile and complaisant.

He would rather not use her name if he can help it, though.

"I wanted to talk to you about Agent Dunham," Broyles says, having apparently decided Peter's wishes can go to hell, along with the rest of him.

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. This is going to be more difficult than he anticipated. Everything is _harder_ and _gloomier_, these days.

"Alright," he says. "I'm listening."

The two men hold each other's gaze, a few more seconds passing before Broyles speaks again. "How does she seem to you?"

Peter frowns, startled. "What do you mean?"

"I want your opinion on how you think she's coping," Broyles replies tersely, probably thinking Peter is being thick on purpose. He's not.

Unfortunately, on occasions, Peter simply happens to be very, _very_ thick.

"Technically, she should still be on leave, considering what she's been through in the past couple of months," Broyles adds.

The familiar burn at the back of his throat has returned; it never stays away for long. "_You_ re-instated her less than a week after she came back," Peter points out, not even trying to conceal how he feels about that particular decision.

"I know that," Broyles sternly replies. "She's…persuasive, as you very well know." In another lifetime, Peter might have laughed at that understatement. "I don't believe letting her go back to work so quickly was a mistake, but I do worry about her psychological state."

Peter's confusion is worsening by the minute, along with the usual assortment of self-loathing feelings he always drags along wherever he goes, his stomach churning. "It still doesn't explain why you're asking me. I'm sure you're forcing her to see one of the bureau's shrinks. They're the ones who're supposed to let you know how your agents are doing."

Lies.

_Lies, lies, lies._

Peter understands with perfect clarity why Broyles is asking him; he's asking him for the same reasons he asked him the same damn thing, over a year ago, after Olivia's accident and brief coma. Because even Broyles had been aware of the dynamic that existed between the two of them, of that ability they had of reading right through each other.

All Peter can think about right now is Olivia as she was a few days ago, when she handed him a plastic bag, not even daring making eye contact with him.

_"__These are, uh, yours. I found them in my apartment."_

Broyles thinking that she and Peter might still have some kind of _trusting_ relationship would have been laughable, if it hadn't made him feel nauseous instead.

"She's indeed meeting with a psychiatrist on a regular basis," Broyles says. "I am not at liberty to discuss it, of course, but I will say that the conclusions drawn from these sessions are…inconsistent, not to say inconclusive. I need your opinion on what you've observed."

Peter clenches his jaw again, his heart thumping against his ears, now. Turning his guilt and shame into anger is something he does frequently, these days, a self-defense mechanism he hasn't lost through the years.

"Okay, here's the thing," he says, one of his hand raising, already hearing the sarcasm taking over his voice. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but I told Olivia everything about what happened while she was being tortured Over There, including the part where I slept with another version of her for a few weeks. Believe it or not, she did not take it well. So, it's kind of sweet of you to think she still lets me hang around as often as she used to, but the truth is, I'm mostly confined to the lab these days. When she goes out on the field, she either goes alone, or asks Astrid to join her."

Peter has lost count of how many hours he has spent in the Harvard basement, simply _sitting_ there, not even pretending to be doing anything useful. All he wants to do in moments like these is what he always used to do when cornered into a difficult situation –run.

Run away from this forsaken place, the way he'd run a few months ago after learning the truth about his origins.

For all intends and purposes, he still has every right to do just that. The few awkward discussions he had with Walter haven't exactly cleared the air on the matter; beyond that, no one seems inclined to think much about how Peter was once again deceived, in one sickening, fucked up way. He can't blame them for not acknowledging his pain. He himself feels too ashamed to think he truly deserves any kind of sympathy, and certainly not absolution.

Because of this, Peter cannot run. Even pushing aside his sense of obligation toward Olivia, he cannot ignore the fact that he's at the center of this damn universal war. He has nowhere to go, no place to run to.

He doesn't belong here, and he doesn't belong there. Olivia certainly made it clear he doesn't belong with her anymore either.

So no, he doesn't run, and on a smaller scale, doesn't get to follow her around the way he used to.

"I am well aware of what she does on the field," Broyles says in answer to his small monologue. Then, after a brief pause, he asks: "Have you read her report? The one she wrote about her time Over There?"

Peter lets the silence stretch for a few seconds, before nodding shortly. He isn't _supposed_ to have read it, but there is no point in lying about it now.

"What was your impression of it?" Broyles asks, not surprised in the least by Peter's rule-breaking.

At last, Peter is starting to get a general idea of where this might be going. "It was…professional," he answers. There is no other way to describe Olivia's account of what she experienced during the weeks she spent on the Other Side.

"Exactly," Broyles says. "She did not omit anything of what she remembers, or what she discovered about their intentions, but her recollection of what happened to her personally was…slim."

Peter fights the urge to ask him if he's honestly surprised by it, by the fact that _Olivia Dunham_ is pushing aside what happened to her, choosing instead to be as detailed as possible about everything else; everything else but her and her wellbeing.

_Who cares about me?_

At the moment, Peter isn't the only who cares about her. Phillip Broyles is not the most expressive man, but his concern is obvious.

"What's this really about?" Peter asks.

Broyles sighs, before getting to his point. "Since you haven't been accompanying her these past couple of weeks, you are probably unaware of her newfound tendency to shoot at suspects."

Peter stares at him, stunned. In the past two years, he has seen Olivia shoot at suspects many times, but from what he remembers, she always did it in self-defense. Broyles is making it sound like she has become 'trigger happy', which seems ridiculous.

"Alright," he says, shaking his head in confusion, hands once again raised. "This cannot possibly be as bad as you make it sound, or it would have landed her into some kind of big trouble with you guys. At the very least, I would have _heard_ of it."

Another lie.

"Each of them were guilty," Broyles continues, "and in the process of running away. None of her shots were fatal, merely incapacitating. She has a good aim."

This is not exactly reassuring. "If you think she's not fit for duty, have her psychologist put her on leave."

Broyles shakes his head, his face grave. "I can't. Even though I believe she's probably suffering from some form of PTSD, which is to be expected given the trauma she's experienced, it doesn't show on her psych exams or sessions reports."

"What do you want me to do, exactly?" Peter asks, losing patience.

His irritation isn't simply caused by the fact that, generally speaking, he doesn't have much patience for anything these days. His main problem right now is being told Olivia needs help, and knowing that he cannot offer it to her.

_That_ makes him feel spectacularly shitty.

"If you expect _me_ to talk her into taking some time off, you really don't understand how dysfunctional our relationship is, right now."

Another blatant understatement.

"Stay by her side, Bishop," Broyles tells him, his voice low, insisting on every word. "I know you've been something of a voice of reason to her, these past two years. All you have to do is keep on doing just that."

The two men stare at each other, united in their concern, but divided in their faith. "I don't really think my judgment can be trusted anymore," Peter eventually says, unable to make it sound derisive.

Broyles slowly shakes his head again. "On the contrary. After what happened with the Other Olivia, I believe your judgment is more trustworthy than ever before."

The message is clear. Peter is a smart man. An _oblivious_ man at times, but smart nonetheless.

_Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…_

Peter will not be fooled again.

…

"What do you mean, you _own_ Massive Dynamic?"

The silence that follows Olivia's question is thick, heavy with tension and discomfort.

Even the couple of local cops still present at the scene are now staring at the three of them in turn.

They're investigating a murder in a town in the outskirts of New York City; for all intents and purposes, those cops shouldn't have any reason to be intrigued or to eavesdrop on the rather tensed Dunham/Bishop(s) discussion, the way some officers in Boston do.

Whether they want it or not, their little trio –or _family unit_, as Peter once described it to her- has become somewhat infamous in the Boston area over the past two years. Fringe files are obviously classified as top secret, but the people who are first called to the scenes cannot exactly forget what they see, and their Division's name definitely isn't a secret.

Like anywhere else, rumors have a way of spreading like wildfire, especially juicy ones.

Since her return to this universe, Olivia has received enough pity-filled looks to get a good idea of the kind of rumors that now surround their freak show of an operation.

_Does everyone know?_

They should have been safe _here_, away from the gossip; yet, these two cops are intrigued. She guesses the smothering tension that hangs heavy over their heads whenever she and Peter are in the same room is hard to dismiss, no matter where they go.

Right now, the problem isn't Peter. She's staring at Walter, who looks more than a little uncomfortable. She'd made a comment; that's how it started. She'd made a comment about them needing to go to Massive Dynamic to check if they had any information on the technology that had been used to kill that woman.

Almost as a joke, trying to prove to herself more than to the Bishops that she could still make light of a situation, she'd said: "I missed going there and having them pretend they'll cooperate completely."

To which Walter had replied, with unmistakable satisfaction: "Considering that I now own Massive Dynamic, I believe they will have to be as cooperative as possible."

Hence Olivia's valid question about his presumed ownership. Had she been anyone else, or had they been any other messed up family unit, she might even have joked again. "When did _that_ happen?" she would have asked.

Olivia doesn't ask; she doesn't need to. She knows exactly when that happened.

Her initial and genuine surprise is short-lived. Even before Walter answers, her demeanor has shifted, back to uncomfortable and tense awkwardness.

"Well," Walter says, tentatively, and she sees him throw a nervous look at Peter; she keeps her eyes on the old man. "I don't know if you're aware of this but, after we were…separated a few months ago, at the Opera House, Belly died." His words are cryptic for a reason; the two cops are still eavesdropping. "In accordance to his will, I became the sole shareholder of Massive Dynamic."

Olivia stares at him for a few more seconds, unsure of how to feel about this new piece of information. For the most part, she feels the way she often feels, nowadays; out of the loop.

Invisible, cold, and unsubstantial.

She averts her eyes at last, turning her light back to the mutilated corpse she's been hovering over, not seeing it at all, mouth pursed.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," Walter adds, his voice lower, honest. "I thought someone told you."

She shakes her head, eyes still cast to the ground. "It's fine," she says. And it is.

Except that it's not, and they all know it.

Soon, she's unable to keep her eyes on the body, as familiar prickles sneak up the back of her neck, drawing her gaze back up, making her look across the room.

As she expected, she meets Peter's eyes dead-on, his stare intense, unrelenting. Just as predictably, the prickles soon morph into shivers, the kind that spread under her skin and all the way down her spine, forming an electric current that coils in her guts.

Olivia doesn't avert her eyes right away, letting the feel of his gaze twist her insides instead; she often does.

He and Walter have been accompanying her out on the field more and more often, lately, something she wasn't exactly happy about at first, but she didn't have the authority to keep them locked up in the lab. The truth is, no matter how uncomfortable most of those moments are, part of her almost craves them.

Obviously, Walter's presence isn't what troubles her. He's actually tried apologizing to her a couple of times, stammering miserably, talking about how that '_devious temptress'_ had blinded him and softened him up with food. Since Walter always initiated these discussions in the presence of both Astrid and Peter, however, Olivia hadn't been able to bear it, to bear the shame and embarrassment talking about the Switch always filled her with. She offered him fake smiles instead, shaking her head and raising her hands in dismissal.

"_It's okay, Walter_," she would say. "_It's fine. We're good_."

She's lost count of how many times she's uttered these words, or to how many people.

Olivia is making every effort to move on, and she does feel herself becoming more and more at ease around some of them again. She's particularly calm around Astrid, whose naturally soothing aura and quiet compassion have been a bit of a blessing in the first couple of weeks following her return. Her relationship with Walter has always been complicated, more tensed than comfortable given their history, so in that regard, nothing has changed much.

The elephant in the room, obviously, is Peter.

If he didn't do anything more than accompany her on almost every case, maybe things would be easier. Maybe whatever feelings she still have for him, the ones she's trying to rid herself off the way she got rid of his shampoo, would eventually fade away, if they both agreed to let them die. He doesn't.

Peter stares at her.

Not all the time, but to her, each of these stares is one too many. Because in those moments and in their aftermath, the intensity of his gaze makes it impossible for her to let her heart flush him out. Every time she feels the prickles and meet his gaze, that treacherous heart of hers beats faster instead, her body still aching for something she never had, and never will.

With the exception of these stares, Peter does give her space. Even when they're in the same room, he tries to avoid standing too close to her, which is why she usually meets his eyes from across the room, like today. Olivia wishes it helped, but it doesn't.

It simply makes her more aware of how they haven't touched since that kiss, Over There.

Somehow, she doubts that holding her hand and briefly pressing his lips to her forehead while she lay on a hospital bed counts. Of course, in Peter's case, he _has_ touched her, although not the right _her_.

Olivia wonders sometimes if he's as aware of it as she is; if these long, penetrating stares are any indication, he must be. He's always been too comfortable around her, always invading her personal space, almost from the day they met. When at first, he might have done it just to unnerve her, aware that she wasn't completely immune to his proximity, the nature of their touches changed over time, along with the rest of their relationship.

She learned early on that Peter is a tactile person. He shows support through touch, offering warmth and comfort with his body language and presence alone, always at hand's reach. In the weeks that preceded the events on the Bridge, when he realized where he was from and ran away from them –from her, he had been prone to touching her; she had been prone to letting him do it, even in her conflicted state.

Standing too close to her in the lab, arms brushing, leaning, none of them moving. Hand on the small of her back while entering buildings, sometimes briefly resting it on her arm after a long day or a hard case.

_You okay?_

Fingers on her cheek, palm sending searing heat into her flesh.

He'd brought his hand to her face, that night Over There. Soon, he was cupping both her cheeks, and his grip was both eager and tender, pulling her more firmly to him.

Olivia had clung to the memory of it, of that kiss. She had let it unfold and unravel in her mind during long hours spent in the dark, feeling frozen to the core. The thought of him, of his body pressed against hers, solid and real, of his scent filling her lungs and head, of his lips and mouth, blazing hot against her own, had kept the cold from consuming her whole.

Most of all, what stayed with her, tethered her, was the memory of his touch when he'd let go, soft, gentle fingers moving again, the back of his nails brushing her flushed cheek, his eyes darkened yet more alive than she'd seen them in weeks, months even.

_I'll come back for you._

Even now, Olivia cannot forget that kiss; every time he looks at her the way he is now, she's back Over There, with his hand on her face and that broken promise in his eyes. She lets him stare at her, lets her inside twists in need and loss, because that's the only thing resembling warmth she's felt since she came back. The only thing she's got left.

Peter hasn't touched her in weeks.

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**A/N:** Updates should be fairly regular. Reviews always help a lot, so don't be shy :')


	2. II

**A/N:** First of all, thank you all so much for reading, faving/putting in your alerts, and of course, smooches to those of you who reviewed :') I was a happy Frenchie today. I'm not going to lie, I'm very excited about sharing more of this story with you guys, I've spent _so_ many hours of my life on this since Christmas, it feels good to finally share it.

This might hurt a bit. You know me, I will squeeze every drop of angst out of this before I give you good feels :p Enjoy!

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**SHIVERED BONES**

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**II.**

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Walter meant well.

Walter usually _always_ means well; he probably redefines the saying '_no good deed goes unpunished_' by now. He meant well when he experimented on children. He meant well when he crossed over to save Peter's life.

He also meant well when he decided to take Olivia on a tour of Massive Dynamic today.

He obviously did so trying to make up for the fact that no one had informed her of the change in ownership.

Peter knows the moment the three of them first step into the elevator that this is a bad idea, watching as Olivia's body language begins to change.

She's never completely relaxed, nowadays, never when he's near her, in any case. But the way she tenses up in that car has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with being in a confined space. He's noticed it, how she now avoids elevators when she can, favoring the use of stairs instead. In a building as big as Massive Dynamic, she's not given much of a choice.

Walter is babbling excitingly as they rise, talking about how he has yet to finish visiting all seventy-three laboratories present in the building, oblivious to the fact that none of them is listening to him. Olivia is breathing her way through the elevator ride, while Peter watches her.

He does that a lot, lately, not simply because Broyles asked him to keep an eye on her. He always used to watch her closely, although he's a lot less subtle about it these days. He learned fairly early on that Olivia would rarely –if ever, let any of them know how she feels, and that the key to deciphering her emotional state was through patient observation.

Yet another skill that flew out the window when he needed it the most.

He's back to watching her, something he avoided doing after her broken rejection, trying to respect her need for space. Now that he's started doing it again, though, it has become hard for him not to do it constantly. At times, he almost feels _too_ aware of her, physically.

After spending two months with a noticeably different version of her, everything that makes Olivia _Olivia_ seems accentuated.

_She's a lot like you. Darker in the eyes, maybe. _

It all comes down to their intensity. He told Olivia that one of the things he did notice was how this other her seemed less intense; retrospectively, he had phrased this very poorly.

The Olivia who came back with them wasn't exactly less intense; their intensity expressed themselves in different ways. The other Olivia projected her intensity outward, with bigger smiles and an easy laugh, along with a carefree attitude that was a bit entrancing –particularly when you convince yourself you're the reason why she's letting it all out in the open.

Because the Olivia he's spent the last two years of his life with? Her intensity is all in the inside. She feels too much, all the time, always trying so hard to keep it all in, not to let her mask fall off, or her walls crumble. But anyone who's been near her can feel it, this inner strength that drives her, wherever she goes, a drawing force that is more than a little entrancing; captivating is more like it. Peter felt it in Iraq, moments after meeting her, and he feels it now, standing behind her in this elevator.

Olivia is pale and anxious, battling with something huge inside her, but hell if she's going to let it win.

When the elevator finally stops, she's the first one out. She reacts the same way throughout 'the tour', whenever they have to step back in there again; she doesn't complain about it once, and Peter sure isn't going to put her in the spotlight by asking her about it, when she's so clearly trying to keep her struggles hidden from view. His concern for her grows, though.

Broyles was right to worry about her; for the most part, she seems to be doing alright, but little things give her away. She's more nervous than she used to be, consequently more jumpy, too. She's got a definite tendency to draw her gun a bit too quickly, not unlike how she was after her car accident. Peter stopped her from actually firing it a couple of times, when he first joined her back on the field; after that, she seemed to get a grip on herself again, and he likes to think –wishfully, that his presence alone does serve as a voice of reason.

Today, Walter remains blissfully oblivious for the duration of the tour, beaming with pride as he shows her parts of the building they would never have been allowed in otherwise; he's particularly proud of the newest lab, focused on developing specifically bacon flavored food –"Including pudding!"

"Oh, wait until you see this floor!" He exclaims as they enter the elevator yet again. "When Nina told me about it a couple of months ago, it had mostly gone to waste. With Belly gone to the Other Side for years, no one was using it. But I had specialists work on it for a few weeks, and now, it's finally ready!"

Olivia actually throws Peter a '_should I be concerned?_' look, but he shakes his head.

"It's harmless," he promises.

When the elevator's doors finally open on the 38th floor, Olivia looks taken aback, and Peter can't blame her. He probably made a similar face the first time Walter took him up here.

Instead of the cold and sterile hallway that has greeted them on every floor, they are standing at the entrance of a rather glamourous loft.

Peter has to admit that the designer team Walter hired did a nice job; the furniture in this 'living room' is mainly made of dark mahogany, most of the floor covered with thick, fluffy carpet –Walter's request.

Peter notices the flickering light against the dark furniture, and frowns. "Did you seriously get a _fireplace_ installed, Walter?"

"Not a real one, I'm afraid," Walter says, disenchanted. "I was advised against it. It looks rather authentic, though, doesn't it?"

Peter eyes the fake fireplace, which does emit soft crackling sounds that are quite believable; when he turns to Olivia to see what she thinks of it, she's not by his side anymore. She's moved, now standing in front of the giant glass window that replaces most of the south wall, arms crossed. He walks to her.

The sun is setting over New York, and Peter cannot blame her for being drawn to the sight. High up as they are, the whole city seems to unravel in front of them, the orange glow of dusk bouncing off the skyscrapers.

"Quite the view, uh?" He asks her, and she flinches a little in surprise, another proof of how edgy she is.

She brings a hand to her hair, pressing her palm to the top of her head; even though she's been using pins since she came back, keeping her bangs hidden, he's noticed how she cannot help but check regularly.

"Yeah," she breathes out, offering him a nervous smile, before turning her gaze back to the scenery, arms once again crossed tightly over her chest. She purses her lips, then, shaking her head a little, as if in disbelief.

"What is it?" He asks.

At first, he thinks she's not going to answer. His heart leaps a little when she does.

"It's just…" she begins, looking confused and almost pained. Her eyes are lost in the city, the setting sun having turned their glistening green to gold. "For a moment, I didn't understand why I couldn't find the Twin Towers." She gives a short laugh, shaking her head again. "Crazy, uh?"

Something painful constricts his insides when he realizes that she _does_ believe herself to be crazy.

Peter wants to say something, try and persuade her that she's most certainly not; taking into account what she's been through lately, she's dealing a lot better than anyone else would expect her to. Before he can utter anything, though, Walter interrupts them.

"Olivia!" He calls out, and besides him, Olivia winces again. "Come and see your room!"

Even though she looks a bit too shaken to Peter, she offers Walter a polite, confused look. "My…what?"

"Your room, dear," Walter says, pointing at one of the doors. "Peter and I each have our own. I made sure both you and agent Farnsworth had one as well. Having a place to sleep whenever we have to stay in New York makes things much more manageable. I was getting a bit tired of all the transit, to be honest with you."

Olivia almost jumps at the opportunity to walk away from Peter and the window, already pretending the moment never happened. The reaction is so typical of her, it might have made Peter smile, six months ago. As it turns out, Olivia seems to be rather pleased with the idea of having a place to stay at instead of constantly travelling back and forth between Boston and NYC.

The tour now officially over, Peter begins to think the whole thing might not be as disastrous as he dreaded; but on their way down, Walter abandons them, under the pretext that he wants to check his 'food' lab again. However, judging by the sly look he gives Peter before exiting the elevator, he's mostly trying to play matchmaker.

This proves, once again, that his father has indeed been completely oblivious to Olivia's quiet but increasing distress. Beyond the fact that she seems uncomfortable having been left alone with him in the small moving car, there's also this _something else_ that has made her so jumpy and anxious.

Her forehead shines with sweat now, her breathing too shallow, eyes fixed on the descending numbers.

_26…25…24…_

"Hey, you okay?" Peter asks, his voice soft, fighting the urge to put a comforting hand on her.

She doesn't look away from the numbers.

21…20…

"Yeah," she breathes out, curtly.

The fact that the elevator hasn't made a single stop yet is almost a miracle, definitely a blessing in disguise. Peter is starting to think they might make it all the way to the ground floor in one go when their luck runs out.

It pauses on the 18th floor, and the doors slide open; a second later, Brandon Fayette enters the car.

He recognizes them right away, of course, and his face breaks into a delighted grin before the doors even close behind him. "Agent Dunham!" He exclaims. "It's good to see you again!"

But Olivia doesn't seem to share his elation in the least. She's somehow retreated against the back wall, arms crossed, holding on tightly to her elbows. Her eyes, now cast to the floor, are wide, almost panicked, breathing in and out in loud and short spurts. When the elevator comes to life again and starts moving down, causing its inevitable drop, she gulps for air.

"Olivia, what's wrong?" Peter asks, unable not to move closer to her, extending a hand as if to put it on her arm, although he doesn't. He's learned his lesson, the memory of her recoiling from his touch a few weeks ago still vivid in his mind.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. "I need…air," she breathes out.

Peter doesn't hesitate. Turning around and glancing up at the numbers, he presses the button to the closest floor. A moment later, the elevator stops again. As soon as the doors open up, Olivia bolts out. Peter makes to follow her, but stops in the threshold as she's turned to face him, a hand raised; she doesn't look at him.

"I'm fine, it's okay," she says to his feet, still breathless. "I'll take the stairs. You go down."

Before he can say anything, she's walking away, looking as if she's trying not to _run_ from them.

"What was _that_ about?" Brandon asks behind him.

Peter ignores him, his eyes still on Olivia's retreating form.

_Haunted, I guess._

…

That night, Olivia finds another one of Peter's belongings in her kitchen.

She's only tried to sleep for a couple of hours, and she's exhausted, her every limb aching and protesting from lack of rest. The stress of the day has made her whole body sore as a result of having been so tensed and alert.

She didn't use to be so familiar with the after effects of panic. Now, barely a day passes without her chest aching or her muscles cramping, not to mention the way her heart thumps at an insane pace, her chest constricting and closing off her lungs, making her feel like she can't breathe.

Ever since she made it home from New York, tonight, she's been feeling on the verge of a panic attack; the fact that she didn't have one in that damn elevator is a miracle in itself, especially after Brandon's unexpected appearance. Rationally, she knows _he_'s not responsible for his alternate's actions, but her fight-or-flight response didn't seem to care much about that, considering the last time she'd seen his face before today, he'd been about to cut her open with a bone saw.

Despite her exhaustion, Olivia would not even _allow_ herself to sleep, even if she could. Every night since her return, any time she's managed to drift off, she's been going back to the Dark Room. Back to those last twelve hours she spent in there after her failed attempt at going home, awaiting death. After what happened today, she sure isn't about to let her mind put her through another particularly vivid nightmare.

Around 3am, she gives up, rolling off her couch and turning her coffee machine on. She isn't surprised to find her mug shelf empty; she's been living on caffeine instead of food and sleep, and she can rarely be bothered with using the dishwasher. She reaches higher in the cabinet, aiming for one of her travelling cups. When she brings her hand down and sees what she grabbed, she freezes.

The cup is cheap, made of white plastic, with a black lid and a black handle. What differentiates it from any other cup is the small graphic on it. It's a loading bar, halfway full, with a caption that reads:

**PLEASE WAIT. SARCASM LOADING.**

She recognizes the cup; she had given it to Peter as a housewarming gift the previous year, when he and Walter moved out of their hotel.

"_That's for all our upcoming 'middle-of-the-night' trips," _she'd said with definite cheek. "_I know they're your favorite_."

She'd seen the cup in a gas station the previous night when she'd stopped to fill up her tank and buy some M&amp;M's. When she'd read what it said, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips, she found it way too fitting _not_ to buy it for him.

"_Agent Dunham, you really shouldn't have_," Peter had replied, adding extra sarcasm to his voice for the occasion, leaving the two of them grinning like idiots, the way they often were, back then.

As she stares at the cup tonight, Olivia feels completely numb.

Another feeling is sneaking in, though. She tries to keep it at bay, without success, every memory of the easy camaraderie she used to have with Peter cutting at her, like razor blades. She's not even hurt by the presence of such object in her apartment –she's found too many of those by now to be affected by it the way she used to be.

What hurts is the reminder of what she's lost, way beyond the futile hope of having him as a lover, maybe.

_You seriously don't have a best friend?_

Best friend.

As she grew older, Olivia became reluctant to label any of her friends as such, mainly because of her unresolved trust issues. Her sister aside, Charlie was the closest thing to a best friend Olivia ever had.

Until Peter, that is.

Because that's exactly what they had become at some point, isn't it? At the very least, they had been close to it. They trusted each other implicitly, back then, seeking the other out whenever they needed someone to talk to, sharing memories from their messed up childhoods, sharing secrets, even.

Sharing fears.

All of this is long gone, now, and the loneliness she feels at that instant is almost unbearable.

It all shattered the moment she saw him glimmer for the first time, and decided to keep that secret from him. She lied to him, even though it was the only secret that truly mattered, the only one he _deserved_ to know. Given enough time, she believed they could have moved passed it, moved on and healed together, had she come back with him.

But she didn't.

She was replaced instead. She was replaced by a version of herself that was less…broken.

_Less intense, maybe._

And there lies the problem. Olivia cannot compete with that. Peter may have come back when she asked him to, the woman he then spent the next eight weeks with was happier, quicker with a smile.

This thought swirls in her head and squeezes her heart every time she inadvertently shows him just how damaged she has become, the way she did today in that elevator. It makes it impossible for her to accept any kind of comfort from him, too afraid of the pity she will find in his eyes, because it would confirm what she suspects, what she already knows: that she is, indeed, the _lesser_ version. The one that was left alone in the dark.

She's still in there, now; frozen to the bone.

…

Peter rubs his eyes, glancing at the digital clock on the microwave.

3.27am.

He wonders for a moment if getting his first cup of coffee that early would be ridiculous, before realizing that it doesn't make much of a difference anyway, considering he hasn't slept at all.

He looks back down instead, refocusing on the page he's spent the last fifteen minutes rereading, his brain constantly drifting off, fogged with fatigue. He has lost count of how many times he's done this, in the past few weeks, read Olivia's report; probably too many times for someone who isn't supposed to have read it at all.

He can't help himself. He has no other mean of knowing what happened to her, Over There. Once upon a time, she might have told him about it, or let him in just close enough so that he could deduce part of it on his own, deduce how she was feeling, and what she needed from him.

Once upon a time, they might have been in the same room at this late hour –or sitting together in her car, more likely, in a comfortable silence or joking around.

Once upon a time, thinking about her wouldn't have made him feel so damn miserable.

Peter sighs, closing his eyes and hanging his head. Elbows on the counter, he cups the back of his neck with both hands, feeling drained and dejected, his familiar nighttime companions of late. Olivia's words dance behind his closed eyelids.

_I was held captive in the DOD for a few weeks, during which they attempted to implant me with my alternate's memories and personality, until I managed to escape from the facility for a short time._

_On their side, Brandon Fayette is in charge of most of the science department, as well as of any experiment conducted there._

_I was once again briefly held in the DOD after a failed attempt at crossing back over to our side. Colonel Broyles, head of their Fringe Division, assisted me in escaping again, before taking me to Harvard._

In other words, professional. In light of what happened today at Massive Dynamic, though, he can read between the lines.

He'd already deduced from her newfound dislike of small spaces that she was detained in a confinement cell. Her reaction to seeing Brandon also confirmed that she was mistreated by his alternate.

_Signs of abuse,_ her doctor had said, back at the hospital. _Needle tracks and scarring on her arms, some old, some very recent._

Peter almost embraces the anger he feels towards these people who hurt her; it offers him a small respite from the other kind of anger, the one he usually directs towards himself.

"Peter?"

He raises his head to find his father standing in the kitchen's doorway. While he's not surprised by the apparition, he's grateful for the fact that Walter is wearing clothes.

He lets go of his nape, closing the report. "Hey," he says, his voice hoarse, lowered by his quiet anger.

"I see you're still having difficulty sleeping," Walter notes, shuffling to the counter. "I can help you with that, you know."

Mouth against his joined hands, Peter shakes his head. "I don't think drugs's the solution."

"Quite true," Walter says. "But neither is spending most of your nights brooding over what cannot be undone." Before Peter can respond to that, Walter adds: "Trust me, I would know."

Peter's anger is already receding, replaced by his familiar bone-deep fatigue. He sighs against his hands. "I know, Walter."

If anything else, having made such a fool of himself and hurt one of the most important people in his life, has somehow mended some of what had broken between him and Walter.

Nothing beats feeling like a couple of asses together to strengthen bonds.

"She'll come around, son," Walter says, comfortingly enough. "You'll see. You eventually did, didn't you?"

Peter closes his eyes, hanging his head again, feeling beyond tired of it all, of the repeating pattern of his life. Betray, or be betrayed.

Trust at your own risk, because you never know what lie awaits, around the corner, ready to knock you to the ground when you're at your most vulnerable.

"I guess I did," he eventually replies, keeping his eyes closed, not elaborating on _what_ had led him to come around.

Or rather, whom.

In his mind's eyes, Peter actually sees her, Olivia, standing in front of him at her most vulnerable. Telling him that both worlds could be damned, for all she cared, because he may not belong on her side, he belonged _by_ her side. What she said with words, she then repeated through touch.

And he felt it, that night, like he felt it so many times before. That inner force of hers, drawing him in, pulling him to her, like a homing beacon.

No, he didn't come back for Walter; he doubts he would ever have come back for Walter.

He had come back for her.

…

The building is both lit and open when Olivia approaches it, just as the sun begins to rise, as she expected it to be. After all, that knowledge is what made her leave her home and get in her car in the first place, unable to stay in her own apartment a minute longer.

Despite what she keeps telling everyone – including the psychiatrist she's forced to see, she is aware that she's not _okay_. The last time she'd felt something remotely similar, there only was one person who was able to help her. Considering she feels drastically worse than she did at any point the previous year, seeking him out today seems like the right thing to do.

She cautiously walks up to the lanes, her eyes roaming the room; he's nowhere to be seen.

"Hello?" she calls out, her instincts directing her steps toward lane 7. Sure enough, a few seconds later, he emerges from the dark hole at the end of it.

"Dunham!" Sam greets her, his tone enthusiastic, and anything but surprised. "I was wondering when you'd show up, I was waiting for you."

She lets him come to her, hands deep in the pockets of her coat.

"Of course you were," she says, offering him a smile that, although brief, feels like her first real smile in weeks. "Nina Sharp?"

"Nina isn't my only source of information," he says, cleaning off his hands with a towel. "I'm a very well connected man."

"So it seems," she says, her smile already gone. At least, she doesn't feel awkward around him.

Sam peers at her, looking more solemn, now. "How you holding up, Buttercup?"

She holds his gaze for a moment, before shrugging a shoulder; the smile that is now tugging at her lips is of a much sadder kind. "How much do you know?"

"Enough to know another version of you walked in your shoes and deceived all of your friends for a couple of months."

"Man," she huffs without a hint of amusement. "You weren't kidding about these connections."

To be honest, Olivia didn't realize Sam was _that_ well informed about what was going on in her life and around the Fringe Division, but she isn't exactly surprised by it either. After all, he had been Nina Sharp's 'therapist' after she lost an arm through a universe-crossing door.

He is peering at her in a familiar way, now, as if scanning her. Generally speaking, Olivia doesn't like feeling gauged, but she never minded it much with Sam.

"Let's go get some breakfast," he says in a bright voice, throwing the towel on a bench.

"I'm not hungry," she automatically counters.

"Well, I am," Sam says, already walking toward the exit. "Some of us need food to survive, Dunham. Don't be so egotistical, it doesn't suit you well."

She's actually smiling again as she follows him out. Less than fifteen minutes later, they're sitting at a diner, having ordered coffee, eggs for Sam, and a few slices of toast for her.

"So," he says, after their waitress is done filling their cups. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how awkward does it still feel to be around your friends?"

Olivia puts her hands around her mug; the liquid is too hot for her to drink, but she enjoys the warmth seeping from the ceramic to her palms. Anything to make some of the cold recede.

She shrugs again, not looking up at him. "On good days, I would say it's down to a 4. On bad days…it goes way back up."

Not to mention how it goes _way_ beyond 10 with some specific people.

"Have you actually discussed what happened with them?" Sam asks.

She shakes her head, smiling her not-so-happy smile, before tilting her head, finally meeting his eyes. "Not really. Nothing past the unavoidable '_Here's What Happened While You Were Gone_' talks when I first came back."

"Do you let them try, though?" He prods, not losing a beat.

As predicted, he's reading right through her. She wants to be annoyed at him for seeing past her facade with such ease, but she can't. This ability of his, to take one look at her and know what's going on in her head, is the reason why she came to see him. Or one of the reasons, at least.

Her heart begins to beat faster, as she finally asks him what she truly wants to know: "Would you have known? If you had met her?"

Sam holds her gaze, eventually shrugging, almost in defeat. "I don't know. I'd like to say '_Sure, of course I would have known the moment we made eye contact'_, but like everything else, that's easy to say when speaking all in hypotheticals. Other elements have to be factored in, like the way people will go to great lengths to bend their perception of things, just so that it can match how they _want_ these things to be."

Olivia nods, too fast, her face constricting now, staring at her steaming coffee, the tension back in every muscle of her body. "I know," she says, curtly, looking back up at him. "And I know that I can't really blame any of them for not realizing she wasn't me, but…"

When she doesn't finish her thought, he does it for her: "…it sucks to find out none of your closest friends actually know you that well?"

It hurts.

Sam hit the nail right on the head, paraphrasing what she would have said, yet it hurt like hell to hear the words out loud.

She brings a hand to her nose, forcing the prickling sensation away from her eyes, once again staring at her coffee instead of at the man sitting across from her. "You could say that," she answers after a moment.

The next time he speaks, the food has arrived at their table, although none of them is touching it. "This is a hell of a thing to happen to a person, Olivia, and that's saying a lot, knowing what kind of life you've already got. You have every right to be angry and sad, and to feel betrayed. It will take time for the residual awkwardness to subside completely, and maybe you'll never be able to trust some of them the way you used to. But you don't have to be a passive victim in this."

She looks back at him, meeting his eyes; like the rest of him, they are both kind and focused, not in the business of sugar-coating things for her.

"They screwed up. Badly," he adds. "But when you think about it, really think about it…what does it tell you about yourself?"

She does think about it for a long moment. She pushes aside the hurt and embarrassment thinking about the Switch always makes her feel, looking beyond. Finally, she says: "It tells me that my friends didn't know any better because I never really let them in."

He blinks, giving her a small nod. As he starts eating his eggs, Olivia gets lost in her thoughts again, her view on the situation beginning to shift. Most of the blame did fall of them for not seeing through her alternate's deception at _all_, but…she thinks of Charlie, then.

Charlie, who she _knows_ with the most infallible certainty, would have realized something was wrong, enough to mention it to the others and raise suspicion. He had been more than her closest friend; he was her mentor, a guardian angel. And yet, when he was killed and replaced by a shapeshifter, she hadn't known.

She had to shoot him right between the eyes and watch as silvery blood slowly dripped on his forehead to be convinced of it, and even then, she didn't grasp the enormity of it all.

Not only hadn't she known, she hadn't known for _weeks_.

She hadn't known, because as much as he was her confident, she hadn't been his, a reciprocity that hadn't exactly been missing; it simply wasn't needed. After hearing him talk about the death of his first partner, she understands why he didn't let her in.

Olivia had done the same thing after John's death. Put up walls, kept everybody at arms' length.

Except with Peter. She didn't let him in, as much as he had _found_ his way in, somehow. By the time she realized he had come past the walls, she was relying too much on his presence _there_ with her to push him out.

Yet, he hadn't known either. Maybe these glimpses of her she let him see hadn't been enough.

She's startled out of her reflections when Sam speaks again, forcing her eyes back on him.

"I don't have much details on what happened to you, during these eight weeks, but just by looking at you, I can tell you're way too tensed, anxious, and not sleeping." There's concern in his gaze now. "Besides the nightmares, has anything become particularly triggering?"

She almost wants to shrug it off, pretend she's dealing much better than she thought, dismiss his question. She doesn't. "Not much besides small spaces," she says, trying to sound casual, but his look remains grave, so she shrugs a shoulder, pursing her lips. "Some smells. Unexpected or loud noises."

Some faces.

"You know what those are symptoms of, don't you?" he asks.

She tilts her head briskly. "I did take a few psychology courses in college."

He doesn't push the issue, for which she is grateful, going back to peering at her instead. "When you do try to sleep…do you do it in your bed?"

She's not in the least surprised. "No."

She thinks of her couch, on which she's been 'sleeping' these past few weeks. Even though she's washed her sheets and linens a few times, she simply cannot bring herself to sleep there, knowing her alternate slept in it, too.

Knowing who she slept in it with.

"I've got an assignment for you," Sam says, and Olivia smiles a little.

"Does it involve the color red? Because I gotta tell you, I'm not that fond of that shade anymore."

"No color involved this time, no business cards either," he says. "I want you to go shopping."

"Shopping," she repeats.

"Yes, shopping. I'm sure you've already cleaned your place from floor to ceiling three or four times, and filled up a couple of trash bags, but believe it or not, that's not enough. You need to reclaim your living space as your own. That's the first step to reclaiming the rest of your life: you need to fix your relationship with yourself, before you can fix all the other ones. So, I don't know, go to Ikea. Buy new sheets, new towels, new plates. Whatever makes you feel like saying '_I don't give a damn about that Redheaded Bitch'_."

She doesn't miss the fact that she never mentioned the other Olivia having red hair.

Yet again, Sam didn't need her to.

* * *

**A/N: **One of my favorite things about season 2 is Sam Weiss. And there are many, many things that I adore about season 2. But Sam is a great character, and he's _exactly_ what Olivia needed back then, someone who doesn't bullshit her too much but also makes her realize she's a human being who needs time to heal like everyone else. The way Sam was used in season 3 was...uhm. Yeah. I don't think I would have minded the whole 'First People' legacy thing, if he'd also been _there_ for Olivia the way he used to be in season 2. Because hell, she needed it. So, I wrote it.

I probably won't update again for a few days, because of work and school, but part 3 should definitely come before the end of the week.

Reviews would be lovely, really really lovely :')


	3. III

**A/N:** Here comes the 3rd part! Once again, thank you so much for the love you're giving this story :')

Enjoy!

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**III.**

* * *

Peter is awakened by his ringing phone.

For a moment, he almost ignores it; the fact that he managed to fall asleep at all is a miracle in itself, something that probably won't happen again for another couple of days. He rolls onto his side anyway, grabbing for his phone on the coffee table, squinting at the screen.

There might have been a time in his life when he would have discarded the call without a second thought, especially coming from an '_UNKNOWN CALLER'_, but these days are long gone. Peter makes it a point to answer every single one of them, now –a side effect from having once received a midnight call informing him that the woman he _thought_ he was with was actually trapped in another universe.

As far as '_what if'_ scenarios go, the one in which he would have ignored that particular phone call has been responsible for a few of his many sleepless nights.

He therefore accepts this one, too, bringing the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Peter Bishop, you _sly_ son of a bitch."

Even though he hasn't heard the voice in years, he recognizes it at once. There is only one person who can say these words with an equal amount of endearment and irritation. To his own surprise, he finds himself _grinning_ within seconds. "Andy?"

"Don't 'Andy' me, you asshole," she says, sounding mostly irritated, now. "Before I even let you try to make excuses for yourself and your shitty behavior, I'm going to tell you a story. It starts a few weeks ago, when I had to conduct some business with Massive Dynamic. While I was over there, I learned that there had been a change in ownership, and that Walter fucking _Bishop_ apparently now owns the billions dollars company. I told myself 'no way, this cannot possibly be the same Walter Bishop from my childhood, who used to tell me and his son it would be _fun_ to get hooked up to car batteries, and who was then committed because he went _insane_.' But guess what, Peter? Turned out he's the same man!"

"I…I'm astounded by the news, truly," Peter says. "I think I need to sit down." He actually stands up, his grin even wider as he walks to the kitchen.

"What the hell, Peter?" Andy asks. "Do you have any idea how hard it was, tracking down your number? And I'm fucking well connected, which is how I finally got to learn that you'd not only come back to Boston a few times through the years, but you've actually been _living_ there for over two years now, and you haven't tried contacting me _once_?"

Peter has opened the fridge, getting everything out to make himself a PB&amp;J sandwich; he's starving all of a sudden, only now realizing he hasn't eaten anything since yesterday. He's still smiling, although he hears the hurt in her voice. He's well aware of what an asshole he's been, indeed.

"I'm sorry, Andy," he says, opening the jam jar. "I can't blame you for being mad at me, I should have called a long time ago. To be totally honest with you, the first time I came back here, I knew I wouldn't be staying long, not to mention that I still felt like a complete jerk about the way I ran off. Then I just…"

"Yeah, yeah, you forgot," she says, acidly. "That's one of your biggest flaws, you know that? Running off when you don't want to deal with your shitty problems, and then 'forgetting' and pretending everything's peachy."

He finishes spreading peanut butter over his bread, letting out a low snort. If only she knew what had led him to develop such terrible coping mechanisms. "Well, you'll be happy to hear I'm evolving as a human being," he says, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I'm currently in a very shitty situation, and I haven't run yet. I'm also still waiting for selective amnesia to kick in."

"Good for you," she says, even more cynically. "I would give you a medal, but I'm so mad at you, I'd probably just shove it up your ass."

Peter chuckles, a wave of old, deep affection washing over him. "God, I've missed you, Andrea. I really am sorry for not contacting you. It's no excuse, but you wouldn't believe how insane my life has become."

"No, you're right, I wouldn't believe it, and it's definitely no excuse." Then, after a pause: "I'm glad to hear your voice, though. It makes me feel about twenty years younger."

"Really? Twenty years ago, my voice used to crack a bit more, if I recall."

"Best six months of my life, Bishop. You sounded so ridiculous."

"Let's not go there," he warns. "I may have a selective memory, I have my share of embarrassing stories about you between ages 11 and 16."

"Fine, fine," she concedes, and he hears the smile in her voice, now. "So. You're really living with your dad again, uh?"

"Yeah," he answers simply. "Things are…different. Kinda better, too."

"Well, they could hardly be worse."

Peter doesn't say anything to that. Andy had been his childhood best friend. She'd grown up three houses down from his, and they'd gone to school together all the way through high school. She knows more about how broken his home life used to be than anyone else. She had definitely witnessed more than she should have, between his increasingly crazed father and a chronically depressed mother.

When he ran off to the other side of the world years ago, she was one of the many people he left behind without a look back, not even bothering with goodbyes.

Unsurprisingly, his guilt is quickly resurfacing, in the form of that acidic burn at the back of his throat, making his sandwich taste sour. He drops what's left of it on the counter, his brief euphoria already receding. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to make up for fifteen years of silence, is there?"

"Of course there is, why do you think I tracked you down?" She scoffs. "Remember that promise we made each other when we were ten?"

"Uhm," he thinks for a moment. "The one about us going skydiving naked?"

"No, smartass, you missed out on that one about ten years ago. I'm talking about how we said that if we weren't married by age 40, we would marry each other. Fuck, how unoriginal were we, back then?"

"We're only 33," he points out.

"No kidding," she says. "I'm getting married next week, Peter. I was calling to let you off the hook."

"Oh," he says. "That's…thoughtful of you."

"Seriously," she continues. "I really am getting married next week. When I found out you were back in the area, I was pissed, but go figure, turns out I still love you. I want you there."

"Andy," he says, hesitantly. "I don't know."

"Oh, come _on_, you owe me," she insists. "Don't you back out of this one. The ceremony's private, direct family only, but the party afterwards is going to be ridiculously big. It will be like you're not even there, exactly the way you've been for the past fifteen years."

"You're making it sound so tempting, sweetheart," he says, his resolve wavering.

Part of him wants nothing more than to see her again, this ghost from his past. But he _did_ leave her behind, and from the resentment he hears in her voice, she's likely to give him quite an earful. He isn't sure how much more his guilty conscience can take at the moment.

"Where's that big party of yours?" He asks anyway.

"New York," she answers. "I figured you probably travel over there a lot now, with our father's new job, CEO of the world and shit."

"You could say that," he says. "Are you living there now?"

"Yeah, I've been there for six years. We should meet up before the wedding, though. I doubt I'd have any time for you then, and I have missed seeing your ugly face. I want to see if you've finally gotten rid of your acne."

"I just hide it all under my sexy stubble, now," he retorts. "Sadly, I still cannot pull off a mustache the way you do."

"I love you too, Bishop. So, will you come?"

He stares at his half-finished sandwich, scratching at the stubble he just mentioned with a knuckle. "Honestly? I don't know, Andy. I wasn't kidding about things being…tensed, at the moment. Or, 'phenomenally shitty', as you would say. I'm a bit of a mess, moping around, not really the life of the party I used to be."

There is a pause, and then: "Okay, we _have_ to meet, just so that you can tell me all about whoever that is who broke your heart."

He's not surprised by her perspicacity. "Yeah, well, the thing is, _I_ actually did most of the breaking. My heart was just collateral damage." He tries to sound casual, and inevitably fails. After a sighs, he adds: "Look, I just…I'll try, okay? My job has a tendency to be unpredictable and life consuming, so I can't promise anything."

"I wouldn't believe any promise of yours, anyway," she says, but her voice is warm, almost affectionate. "If _I_ promise not to give you hell about what happened back then, not on our first meeting anyway, will you seriously think about it?"

"I will," he says, truthfully.

"Good. You have to start making amends, you know."

Even though she said it teasingly, the joke is lost on Peter.

…

The bullet pierces the man's forehead.

Olivia's aim had been steady, her shot precise.

When the dead shapeshifter falls to the floor, the woman he was holding hostage against him begins to scream, before she crumbles to the floor with him, grabbing at his body. She's hysterical, her howls only halting for a second when her gaze takes in the silvery blood now leaking out of his skull. Her screaming resumes, louder. It takes two FBI agents to pull her off the corpse of what she thinks is her dead husband.

Olivia asks them to take her to the kitchen, away from the scene, telling them to do their best to help her calm down, and to let her know when she's ready to talk. She'll replace them soon enough, the ache in her chest making it hard for her to stay detached. She's always done her job with empathy, but these days, every case feels more personal, not to say emotionally draining, especially those involving shapeshifters and identity swaps.

Everybody present seems to relax a little when the woman's desperate cries become less audible. Olivia instructs the rest of her team to collect evidence and to send the body to the lab, before scanning the room again, her eyes quickly stopping on Peter. She'd asked him to stay in the car during the raid, but he obviously did not listen, there to witness the scene. He's now standing in front of a wall, staring at the pictures frames that hang on it.

She should leave him be, but something in his body language makes it impossible for her to dismiss him. She's _never_ able to dismiss him completely, never was, irremediably drawn to him, which, given their current situation, is a bit of a hassle.

A week ago, she would have fled as soon as possible anyway, preferring the company of a grieving woman over having to remain too long in Peter's proximity. Today, she walks to him. She keeps a good distance between their bodies, though, as she comes to stand beside him.

She doesn't say a word, giving him a furtive glance. She knows at once that he's aware of her presence, his body tensing a little more. She tenses, too, a predictable response, and it is all it takes for her to start regretting not leaving him alone.

She needs to come to term with the fact that she can't do this anymore, seek him out whenever she wants to get a moment's respite from whatever is happening around them, the way he used to seek her out, too.

Pursing her lips, Olivia moves her eyes away from his tensed form, looking at the pictures instead.

"They were high school sweethearts," Peter says then, his voice low, a deduction he obviously made from a portrait taken on their prom night. "And they were married in the spring." Olivia has spotted the wedding picture, too, the glowing couple standing in front of blooming cheery trees.

Try as she might, she's unable not to be affected by his tone of voice as he makes these odd observations, and she turns her eyes back to him, looking up at his profile this time. Even when they _do_ stand close to each other, something they both avoid doing these days, she tries not to look at him for too long, in an attempt not to get caught up in one of his long stares.

Yet, she watches him today, taking in his altogether ruffled appearance. His hair is getting too long, his stubble unkempt. He looks like he's not getting much sleep either, his face too pale, his features strained.

She forces herself to look away again, biting the inside of her lip, wishing these signs of melancholia didn't cause her stomach to turn to stone. The truth is, she's been reluctant to think too much about his feelings, well aware that he's not doing so well himself, but unwilling to find out exactly why.

Of course he would feel bad about what happened and the pain he caused her, but she can't help wondering if maybe he's missing _her_, too. Missing what the two of them had before Olivia came back.

"Look at them," Peter says, then, more to himself than to her. "They were a perfectly cliché couple, set to live a perfectly cliché life. Absolutely normal. Goes to show everyone's at risk of having their life screwed over."

He sounds beyond bitter, and given how 'weird' the two of them are, Olivia gets his point loud and clear, her mouth pursing again. She still has no idea what to say, or if he even expects her to speak at all.

She's once again saved from having to find a way out of the situation on her own, as an agent joins them to let her know the woman, Laura, is ready to talk. She doesn't hesitate, barely glancing at Peter –who's still staring at the pictures anyway, before walking to the kitchen.

To say that Laura is ready to talk was a bit of an exaggeration; she's calmed down enough to be able to listen, now sitting on a chair, looking completely numbed, both her hands resting on her prominent belly. Olivia takes a seat in front of her, and softly begins explaining what happened. Generally speaking, she's not supposed to say too much to civilians, but given what this woman just witnessed, she deserves to be told part of the truth. Everyone should be offered the chance to get some closure.

"I don't understand," Laura says, when Olivia is done giving her the most succinct explanation she can, looking more wretched and confused by the second. "He was…replaced?"

Olivia nods. "From what we know, probably a while ago," she says, keeping her voice soft. "I'm sorry, Laura."

Laura brings a hand to her mouth, trying to swallow back her sobs, her face distorted with sorrow and incredulity. Then, her hand falls back on her stomach, suddenly looking horrified. "What about my baby? Is she…?"

"Your baby is fine," Peter's voice comes from the doorway. Olivia shifts in her seat to look at him, but he doesn't meet her eyes, his gaze on the other woman. "The man who took your husband's place? There's no way he can conceive a child. Your husband probably died at some point during your pregnancy. I'm sorry," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

This doesn't soothe Laura at all. She's hugging herself tightly, now, rocking back and forth. "He was gone and I didn't know?" She laments, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "We've been together for ten years, how could I not know?"

Laura is too distressed to notice the tension that now crackles in the air, but being both the cause and the recipient of it, Olivia cannot even attempt to ignore it, disturbed by the inevitable déjà-vu these words cause her to feel.

_How could you not see that?_

"You loved him," Peter says quietly, drawing Olivia's eyes back to him. "That's why you didn't know."

While he had remained silent on that night Olivia asked him the same thing, asked him _how_ he could not have known, he speaks today, although he still doesn't look at her as he does so.

"These…people, they're good at what they do, making sure you won't suspect anything. And even though you probably noticed some changes, you rationalized everything. Why would you even consider the idea of your husband possibly being replaced by someone who looked exactly like him, but wasn't him? Beyond the fact that you would think yourself crazy, you wouldn't even have allowed yourself to _think_ it. Because accepting the idea that they might have been replaced means accepting the fact that they are gone. Denial is just…safer."

Olivia's heart is racing again, her chest and her throat constricted as she stares at him. She stares at his weary features, sensing the guilt and humiliation coming out of him in waves, almost wishing he would meet her eyes, now, shaken by his words, and by the way he identified himself with this woman.

Olivia had instinctively empathized with her pain, but what she'd failed to realize until now was that this pain was a reflection of _Peter_'s pain.

After only a few seconds of this suffocating silence, Peter slips away from the room, never once meeting her eyes.

…

In the hours that follow, Peter isn't sure who's avoiding who.

He's definitely not encouraging proximity or eye-contact, which is particularly easy considering Olivia spends the rest of the day (hiding) in her office. The car ride back to the lab was awkward enough; he supposes they both need a break from the tension.

Walter keeps him company at first, assisting him in removing the data disk from the dead shapeshifter's spine, briefly brainstorming some ways they might be able to read whatever is on it. His father quickly grows bored with the topic, though, and before long, he's out of the lab, off to the biology department.

After hooking up the data disk to a computer, Peter has nothing to do but wait. He's been going over the Machine's spreadsheets again, every piece of information Massive Dynamic regularly sends him, as they constantly run new diagnosis on the device. Given his current state of mind and constant exhaustion, with his elbow on the table and his head resting on his closed fist, Peter is most productive in dozing on and off.

The next time he opens his eyes, his gaze meets Olivia's.

Finding her staring at him should have been enough to startle him. He must have been starting to fall asleep for good, though, because he's so confused for a moment that he doesn't move at all. He simply stares back at her, as she stands a few feet away from where he sits.

She's got her coat on, as if she had been in the process of leaving the lab when she stopped to…what, watch him _sleep_? He would never have let himself think that the sight of him half-asleep was enough to stop her in her tracks, but the way she's now looking at him speaks for itself.

She seems to have momentarily lowered her guard, discarding that forced, neutral expression she usually tries to adopt around him these days. Her pain is out in the open again, but there is no accusation in her eyes, no resentment. There even is a softness in her gaze, something resembling empathy, as if the pain she feels isn't simply her own anymore.

The moment doesn't last long, a couple of seconds maybe, until they both seem to realize what they're doing –staring at each other a bit _too_ openly, at which point they swiftly avert their eyes.

Peter straightens up, running a hand over his face, as if chasing the last of his sleep. There's no need, really. With his heart now racing in his chest, his mind is efficiently awakened.

"Hey," he greets anyway, not looking at her. His voice is hoarse, and they can both pretend that's caused by sleep, too. "You're heading home?"

"Yeah," she says, sounding slightly breathless herself. When he looks back at her, she seems to be trying to readopt her casual demeanor, politely distant; she's mostly failing at it. "You, uh…" she starts, before pointing at the computer. "Any luck with the disk?"

"Uh uh," he shakes his head, stifling a yawn, his body still a bit groggy. "It's running diagnostics, but I'm not too hopeful. I guess I'll wait another hour or two, see if something comes up."

Already, he's spun his chair away from her, offering her his back as he looks down at the Machine's schematics again; he's well aware that she has yet to walk away. He's also well aware that he's behaving like a coward.

He shamelessly stares at her from a distance when they're surrounded by people, but the moment they're on their own and she's close enough for him to see the green of her eyes, he can barely hold her gaze.

"Peter?"

The way she speaks his name completely immobilizes him for a moment, her voice hesitant but soft. Familiar. It's the first time she uses that tone since the day she woke up, in her hospital bed.

Trying to look more composed than he feels, his heart now galloping somewhere at the base of his throat, he spins his chair around to look at her. She's abandoned all attempts at putting her mask back on, that same, soft pain back in her eyes, slightly constricting her face.

"What that woman said, today, and what you said to her," she begins, tentatively. She sounds conflicted, as if she's forcing the words out of her. "I just…it made me realize that, these past few weeks, I never really thought about it from your point of view. About…about what it must have felt like for you, to realize what _she_'d done. Not just to me, but to you. And I'm sorry."

Peter tries swallowing past the lump in his throat. While she had to force herself to speak, he's now forcing himself _not_ to look away from her. Hearing her say this should have made him feel better, but it doesn't.

He shakes his head, not to negate her words, more in defeat than anything else, finally averting his eyes, unable to stand seeing that ache in hers. She doesn't owe him any apology, but he's not about to discard her efforts, aware of what it cost her to say this.

"I'm sorry, too," he manages to say instead, unable to hide the self-contempt in his voice.

Olivia means it, everything she said. Compared to how things were a few weeks ago, when they could barely stand to be in the same room, let alone speak to one another, this is a clear sign of progress.

Yet, it doesn't give him hope. It doesn't make him think that maybe, just maybe, they will be able to fix this. Because Peter still feels it, that wall between them, that unforgiving distance now separating them.

Olivia might have traveled between words to find him, once, he doubts she will ever brave that empty space between them.

As if on cue, Astrid enters the lab, then, and when Peter glances back at Olivia, his suspicions are confirmed: she's finally turned away from him, now behaving like he's not even here at all. Peter barely listens to the women as they chat for a few moments. Less than a minute later, Olivia is out of the lab, having said something about needing to go shopping.

He's gone back to the Machine's data, pretending to be intently focused on it, when he's mostly trying to pull himself together again. If he tries hard enough, he might avoid getting sucked back into the hollow that used to be his gut.

"You need to go out more."

Peter looks up. Astrid is now standing almost exactly where Olivia stood, minutes ago.

"Excuse me?"

She gives him a knowing look. "You know what I mean. These past few weeks, you've been spending more time in this lab than me and your father _combined_."

He lets out a noise that is meant to sound like a chuckle, the only 'laugh' he can muster at the moment. "You don't have to worry about me, I'm fine." He's already averted his eyes again.

"One of these days, I swear I'm going to get a dictionary and force the two of you to read the definition of _fine_ out loud to me," Astrid mumbles, almost to herself. Peter doubts the other person she's referring to is Walter. "I don't mean to sound coddling, Peter, but have you looked at yourself in a mirror, recently? Those are not even bags under your eyes anymore, I think they qualify more as dark, bottomless pits."

"I'm fi-" he begins, but he stops himself with a sigh, bringing a hand to the back of his head, ruffling his hair in a defeated gesture.

"Look," Astrid says, having walked closer to him. "I get that you're feeling miserable, and I'm not going to tell you you need to get over it. That's not my place. But as your friend, I _do_ have to tell you that you need to take better care of yourself. I don't think I can handle nursing two Bishops at the same time."

He actually smiles at her. Both her concern and her words are genuine. "Thanks, Astrid," he says. "I promise to stay away from the LSD, if that helps."

She smiles at his lame attempt at a joke, but doesn't look convinced. She tilts her chin toward the heap of sheets spread over the table. "You need a distraction, one that doesn't involve shapeshifters or this damn thing."

She walks away, then, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Her kind words don't bring him much comfort, having just been reminded of another time, not so long ago, when he was told he could use a distraction.

_She_ had straddled his lap, then, pinning him to the back of 'her' couch. In that moment, she had felt almost as feral as she looked.

_There's always the temporary fix._

Peter barely sleeps these days. Instead, he's spent hours replaying every scene in his head, every conversation they had, and he's come to the conclusion that this is what it truly was about, for _her_.

Distractions.

Distracting him was her mission. To fog his mind and overwhelm his senses, drugging him on endorphin to hijack his genius brain. She made him feel content and sated, as he prided himself on the fact that Olivia seemed so much happier, less burdened, even. Knowing that he was loved and had a place in this world by her side had made _him_ feel happier, so why wouldn't it be the same for her?

_She_ fed him lies between the sheets, and in every discussion they ever had, constantly prodding, pushing, trying to get him to say or do whatever _she_ wanted him to do.

Peter thinks of Olivia, then. He thinks of her as she was minutes ago, hesitant but kind, apologizing for having been so hurt that she hadn't thought about his pain, once again wearing her heart on her sleeve for him.

Astrid's right. He _needs_ a distraction.

Peter gets his phone out, looking for the number he added only a few days ago, pressing the call button before he can change his mind.

Andy picks up almost right away. "Missing me already, Bishop?"

Moments ago, he felt like he would never smile again. And yet, here he is, smirking. "I'm thinking about taking a trip to New York tomorrow. Got any free time for an old friend?"

"For you, I might even free up a whole _hour_ of my time."

…

"Olivia?"

Olivia freezes, her hands clenched around the fluffy towel she had just picked up from the shelf.

Of all the voices she never expected to hear in the middle of the _Bath_ section of 'Bed Bath &amp; Beyond', this one ranks pretty high on the list. For a moment, she wonders if she's imagined it. After all, hallucinating men from her life has become one of her trademarks.

But when she turns around, there he is. She stares at him, more than a little stunned.

"Lucas."

He grins widely, and even as he walks to her, she's still not entirely sure she's not making him up. Before she can do anything, he's hugging her. No, he's _squeezing_ her.

She does not respond to this impromptu embrace, standing frozen on the spot, both hands still holding the towel, now squished against Lucas' chest. He doesn't seem to mind her lack of reaction, rocking her from side to side a couple of times, before pressing a loud kiss on her cheek. When he pulls back, he doesn't let her go, holding on to her shoulders.

He's grinning like an idiot, apparently thrilled. "Talk about chance meetings," he says.

Olivia is tensing up, now. All of her muscles are hardening, diaphragm included, shortening her breathing, a reaction she wouldn't have had two years ago. Hell, a reaction she wouldn't have had four _months_ ago. She can't help it, her body unused to friendly gestures anymore, rather the opposite.

Thankfully, before she has to physically push him away, Lucas lets her go, maybe sensing her tension. She relaxes almost instantly once he releases her shoulders, breathing more freely, and she forces herself to smile.

She's in shock, obviously, but part of her _is_ pleased to see him.

"What are you doing here?" She asks. "In a 'Bed Bath &amp; Beyond' of all places?"

He smiles. "I'm here for the same reason as you, apparently," he points at the towel. "I need some of those. I just moved to a furnished apartment, but those don't come with towels."

"You just moved to…" she shakes her head, more and more confused. "You left Germany? Are you really living in Boston?"

"Well, for the time being, yes," he says, and his smile begins to falter. "It's complicated."

"You should have called me," she reprimands him, although her voice remains friendly.

"I thought about it," he says. "And I probably would have, eventually, but you never returned any of my calls or emails after we saw each other the last time, so I just assumed you were through with me."

He says it jokingly, but Olivia hears the hint of truth in his words. "I'm sorry," she says. "It wasn't personal, life has been…" She hesitates. How do you describe a life in which you deal with alternate universes? "…hectic."

"I figured," he says, the smile already back on his lips. It quickly vanishes again, though, as he peers at her, in a way that strongly reminds her of Sam. "Are you okay?"

That's an excellent question. She thinks about lying, but the prospect of lying to him of all people seems more exhausting than anything else.

She simply shakes her head in dismissal, offering him a derisive smile. "You always reappear into my life at the strangest of times, Lucas. And never when I'm at my best."

"C'mon," he says. "The last time I saw you, you'd just been betrayed by your partner, it can't possibly be worse."

Olivia knows she's making a face, but she's not sure _which_ emotions she's showing. It must reflect some of the queasy, suffocating unease she now feels, because Lucas grimaces. "I'm sorry, Liv, I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay," she lies in that voice so unlike her own, forcing herself to give him one of her damn smiles.

_It's okay, it's fine, we're good_. Yet another person added to the list.

"No, it's not," Lucas replies. "I swear I haven't turned back into a jerk in the past two years, and I can prove it to you. Let me buy you dinner."

Olivia thinks about refusing, briefly wondering why all these people suddenly insist on buying her meals, but she feels too numb to turn him down. They quickly check out what they came here to buy, and by the time they've settled down at a table in a nearby restaurant, the numbness is finally starting to recede.

"Talk to me," Lucas says. "I know your job is top secret, but something _did_ happen to you, and knowing you, you're probably not talking about it with anyone."

Sitting across this man from her past, Olivia thinks about Sam again, who she _had_ talked to, but she knows it doesn't really count, not in a way that truly matters. She also thinks about that realization she had, about the way she pushes people away. She looks into Lucas' friendly eyes, quietly offering her some compassion and comfort, when she's been so lonely, these past few weeks, left with no one to talk to, indeed.

Maybe this is life throwing her a bone, telling her she doesn't _have_ to shut everyone out.

When Olivia begins to talk, she doesn't stop. It _pours_ out of her, almost shockingly. She doesn't give him any details, obviously, keeping everything vague, places as well as names. She also has to modify the whole '_I was stuck in an alternate universe for two months and another version of me stole my life and my would-be lover'_, but Lucas gets the gist of it, enough to understand she's been hurt and betrayed again.

"I'm sorry, Liv," he says, once she quiets down again, apparently at a loss for words.

She shakes her head, sweeping the air with a hand. "It's fine." Then, "well, not really, but I'm working on it."

He looks stern now. "What's his name, your partner?"

Olivia hesitates, but not long. "His name is Peter."

_He's sort of the reason I'm here._

She tried her best to keep her tone neutral, but she's not fooling him.

"I hate that guy," he says.

Olivia shakes her head with a sad, tired smile. "Don't. It's…complicated."

That's an understatement. She doesn't want Lucas to _hate_ Peter, though, not when she doesn't hate him herself. She may have been angry at him, still hurting to this day, but there is no hate in her heart.

She thinks of the 'conversation' they had, a few hours ago, after she found him half-asleep and was unable to walk away, not before telling him what she'd spent most of the day thinking about. She tried reaching out, but the effort it took was so demanding, she almost had to flee the lab in the aftermath. In moments like these, it's hard for her to see how they can ever find a way to resolve this tension between them.

The truth is, Olivia is not used to this, to having someone on the other side of her pain, still around for her to deal with. With her previous heartaches, Lucas included, the person responsible for it was either out of her life for good, or dead.

But Peter...Peter is still here.

Olivia forces herself to get out of her head, focusing back on the man sitting across from her. Lucas is peering at her again, as if he's reading her mind, and not approving much of what he's seeing in there. Sensing that he's about to say something else, she realizes she doesn't want to hear it.

Sharing some of what she's been going through with someone she trusts has made her feel slightly better, but she didn't tell him enough for him to even begin to understand the complex nature of her issues with Peter, let alone give her advice on the matter.

"Enough about me," she says, too brightly, with another derisive swoop of her hand. "Tell me why you're in Boston. I can tell something happened to you, too."

Lucas grimaces. "Well, someone broke my heart. We were engaged. Now we're not."

"Ow," she says with a sympathetic pout. "How long ago?"

"Couple of months," he shrugs. "She's actually in Boston, right now. She just…doesn't know I'm here."

Olivia frowns, pursing her lips. "You do realize that sounds a bit…"

"Creepy? Yeah," he chuckles. "I'm not stalking her. She left Germany and came back here because that's where her father is. He's sick, dying. She didn't give me much of a choice. She left me, saying she couldn't ask me to leave my career just to follow her across the ocean."

"So, you left your career and followed her across the ocean," Olivia sums up.

"Yup," he nods.

"Wow," she says, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. "She must be it, then."

The moment could have been awkward, considering the two of them actually broke up over somewhat similar matters, mainly their careers, and his unwillingness to compromise his in any way. But there is no awkwardness or residual feelings of hurt. They've both moved on and grown from it.

Lucas smiles sadly. "I really think she is. I've taken a six months leave from work for now. My plan is to settle down here and contact her, test the waters. I want to be here for her, even if she thinks I don't. But I get why she needs to be with her family right now, too, and if she needs space, I can respect that."

Olivia looks at him, somehow appeased by his words. It feels strange, to be faced with a person from her past, someone who used to mean so much to her. There is something reassuring in realizing that, she may have changed in the past ten years, he has changed, too. And yet, at the core, he remains the same man she first fell in love with.

Hopefully, it applies to her, too.

"You're a good man, Lucas," she tells him softly, truthfully. "I hope she'll come around to see that. I just wish there was something I could do to help."

Olivia didn't expect him to take her up on that offer, but he tilts his head, then, and judging by the look on his face, she's not sure she wants to know what he has in mind.

"Actually, there _is_ something you can do," he confirms, and she raises an eyebrow. "I don't think you're going to like the idea, but I'm telling you right now, I'm not giving you much of a choice."

* * *

**A/N:** Did I really dare bring Lucas back? Haha I dared. Don't worry, though, he's just a mean to an end. I hope you enjoyed this part anyway! I'll post the next one within the next few days, the one I refer to as "_Let There Be UST"_, as we slowly but surely advance toward more juicy things.

Reviews would make me ignore my school work (even more) and edit faster, just sayin' :D


	4. IV

**A/N:** I'm so unused to updating something this frequently, I don't even have anything to ramble about in my author notes anymore xD If you're still reading even after I brought back Lucas, good decision, good decision :p

This part was fun to write for a lot of reasons. Please enjoy ;)

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**IV.**

* * *

As she walks through the lobby of Massive Dynamic, Olivia feels more than a little exposed, all too aware of the stares. Considering she's wearing nothing but a dress, she's not exactly surprised.

When she'd come to the logical conclusion that she should get ready in the 38th floor's loft, since she would be spending the night there, she admittedly didn't think about how she would have to _walk_ out of the building in her formal attire, during one of its busiest hours.

Ignoring the stares had been easier in the elevator, focused as she was on the descending numbers, forcing her breathing to remain deep and slow. Now that she's out in the lobby, though, she more than regrets her decision, begging herself not to trip and fall; she honestly cannot remember the last time she had to walk in heels.

She _knows_ what she looks like, having spent a fair amount of time in front of the bathroom's mirror, trying to remember how to apply eyeliner, all the while coming to term with the fact that her growing bangs had to stay loose for once. She's ill-at-ease in her black dress, even if it isn't particularly revealing, but she's out of her element without her three layers of clothes.

Younger, she might not have minded the looks so much, her self-esteem enjoying the boost of confidence whenever she made the effort of dressing up, but these days belong to another life. Wearing a dress certainly doesn't make her feel any less like the FBI agent that she is, which is why she glares at quite a few people as she walks towards the exit.

She spots Lucas near the revolving doors. He looks good in his suit, but she's too annoyed at him to care. She doesn't miss the way he eyes her, unaffected by her scowl. "Damn, Liv," he says when she joins him. "You realize every person in this lobby just fell in love with you, right?"

"I really hate you for this," she retorts, grudgingly accepting his arm. She can use the extra support, still a bit unbalanced on her heels.

"You look dashing," he says in her ear as they walk out.

She can't help but chuckle. "Dashing? Of all the adjectives you could have come up with, you go for _dashing_?"

"Well, I was going to go for _sinful_, but I am a taken man who's trying to respect the whole 'exes' boundaries."

Almost in spite of herself, the thirty-one year old woman hiding somewhere behind the FBI agent begins to smile.

…

As Andy predicted, she doesn't have any time for him on her wedding day.

The extent of their interaction is a thirty seconds exchange at the beginning of the reception, just enough time for her to say, rather sardonically, "I put you at one of the singles tables, I figured you wouldn't mind," before she's swooped by the crowd.

Peter doesn't mind much, indeed, seated between two lovely ladies who look and sound as equally charming. As it so happens, though, he stops paying any attention to them rather quickly.

Barely three minutes after they all settle down at their table for dinner, Peter spots _Olivia_ sitting at the head table.

When his initial shock subsides and he eventually gives up trying to figure out how the _hell_ they've ended up attending the same wedding reception, he simply resigns himself to staring at her for the duration of dinner, unable to do much else.

Even from a distance, he's transfixed by the way she looks. He's seen her out of her _agent-on-a-mission_ attire, long before he became too intimate with the wrong version of her, and it isn't like he hasn't been aware of her femininity. They didn't know each other three days that she was stripping down to her underwear in the middle of the lab. Nonetheless, the sight of her in anything but her buttoned-up suits has always been a bit strange.

Olivia is, and has always been, a stunningly beautiful woman, fit and athletic; from what he knows of her, her fitness isn't something she preserves because she takes pride in the way she looks, but mainly because her profession demands it. Given the choice, she always favors practicality over comfort, or even personal taste.

But no matter what she wears, no matter what little care she puts into her appearance, she's always beautiful to him. And she _definitely_ put care into her appearance tonight.

Sitting as she is, he can't see much of her, but it's obvious she's nowhere as dressed up as some of the other women here, her makeup more subtle as well. Compared to what he's used to seeing, though, the sight is mesmerizing. It makes her looks younger, almost vulnerable, although Peter knows better. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd found a way to bring her gun in.

Later, he would have _very_ little recollection of what was going on during dinner, too busy watching her, his mood progressively darkening as he starts paying attention to the man sitting by her side, wishing he wasn't so damn good at reading body languages. There's history between them, _intimacy_.

The man is too at ease, invading her personal space, leaning close to her ear to talk to her over the noise. He's making her smile. He's making her _laugh_. He's making her look more relaxed than he's seen her in weeks.

When the party moves from the dining room to the ballroom, Peter's focus doesn't change, although he keeps his distance, in a lame attempt not to be too creepy about it. The truth is, now that he has a full view of what she's wearing, staying away from her becomes nearly impossible.

He stands on the opposite side of the dancefloor, watching as the mysterious man keeps on talking too close to her ear, until he eventually leaves her alone, probably off to get some drinks. Peter's resolve to stay away from her wavers, fighting the urge to go to her, talk to her, exert his own invisible force on her the way she does on him. He wants to make her forget about the other guy.

He knows the unusual settings they're in are responsible for his renewed boldness, between the crowd, the music, and the way she looks, almost out-of-character, yet still very much herself. Feeling bold doesn't make him any less of a coward. Without a new case to work on, they haven't even said a word to each other since that tensed exchange in the lab, a few days ago.

Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't dare approach her. Imposing himself on her when she's obviously having a good time, probably for the first time since she's come back, wouldn't be fair to her, well aware that it would drastically change her mood.

He _owes_ it to her to leave her be.

But when Olivia eventually meets his eyes, in between moving bodies, all of his noble intentions scatter away.

…

"_Benjamin is getting married next week, and when I RSVP'd a few months ago, I was supposed to be coming with a plus one."_

"_No."_

"_C'mon, Olivia. He'll be thrilled to see you again, he's almost nothing like the bratty college boy he was ten years ago."_

"_Lucas, I am not going to go to your brother's wedding as your date."_

"_You won't be my date, you'll be my plus one. Come with me as my friend, okay? Mom will be ecstatic. She always said I was an ass for letting you slip away –that's a direct quote."_

As it turns out, this had been another understatement. Ruth lets out a _squeal_ when she first spots Olivia.

The woman's emotions are obviously running high, with her youngest son getting married today, but the joy in her eyes is genuine as she briefly cups Olivia's face in her hands, in a motherly way that creates the nicest kind of ache in her heart.

"I'm so glad you decided to come, love," Ruth says, her eyes brimming with tears. "I know we haven't seen each other in years, but I hope you know you'll always be like a daughter to me."

"Thank you," Olivia breathes out, unexpectedly shaken.

She remembers, now, how much she enjoyed spending most of their school breaks at Lucas' family estate, during the three years they were together. As a young adult, Olivia had been an orphan for the better part of a decade, and Ruth, who had mothered four boys and longed for a daughter, had been more than happy to give Olivia some of the nurturing attention she'd been deprived of for years.

Like his mother, Benjamin _is _thrilled to see her, entrapping her in a bear hug that is so genuine and warm, Olivia barely tenses at all. Lucas' family is just like she remembers it to be: loud, friendly, and all kind of obnoxious. After being introduced to Ben's new wife, Andrea, who greets Olivia by saying "_Well, fuck, you're gorgeous. Lucas, you're such an idiot_," it is clear the woman was always meant to become a part of it.

While the wedding ceremony itself is small and a quick affair, every friend and relative of the bride and groom have apparently been invited to the reception.

Olivia, who still feels uncomfortable in her dress and heels –not to mention the crowd, dreads the rest of the evening. Against all hopes, dinner turns out to be a lot more enjoyable than she expected, sitting not far from the newlyweds, squeezed between Lucas and his oldest brother. Lucas tries his best to help her relax, even getting a few laughs out of her; she starts to feel particularly better after a few glasses of wine. Throughout the meal, she gets the odd impression that she's being watched, her neck prickling, but whenever she scans the many tables filling the room, she's met by a sea of strangers.

When the crowd eventually moves to the ballroom, Lucas tries to get her to dance with him after the opening number. She refuses categorically, sending him to get her some champagne instead. He goes for it, maybe remembering how easily champagne makes her tipsy –she still won't dance with him.

As Olivia waits for him to come back, standing outside the dancefloor, she observes the many people already twirling around the room, more or less gracefully, not to say more or less soberly. The mood is cheerful, almost electrifying.

Between the joyful event itself and the free alcohol flowing, everybody seems looser, happier. Olivia isn't immune to it, unable not to be affected by the vibes, slightly mellowed by the wine, too. She's even smiling a little, thinking that agreeing to come here was a good decision, after all.

Understandably enough, all of her happy thoughts swiftly evaporate when she meets Peter's eyes across the dancefloor.

Shivers break under her skin, which soon erupts in goosebumps. Her heart has started to race in her chest, convinced that she's making him up. Unlike Lucas, who she had loved dearly, but never had any reason to _hallucinate_, Peter materializing himself in a crowded place is such a familiar sight, not to say a fresh memory, that she forgets to breathe for a moment.

_You're not real._

In that instant, Olivia is beyond confused, convinced that she's back over _there_, in the wrong universe, and that if she looked in a mirror, her hair would be back to that vibrant auburn she spent weeks trying to dye off.

When she starts breathing again, she actually _smells_ the street as it had been on that afternoon when she first spotted this projection of him; the flowers, the cars, the ruined fruits on the pavement, and the lingering traces of a chemical that doesn't exist in this world, the hint of amber.

Her panic is irrational, as well as fleeting, but she cannot do anything about it, her insides twisting and her chest constricting, making her wish for fresh air. She closes her eyes, suddenly feeling claustrophobic among so many people. She forces herself to calm down, taking deep breaths, the street smells already gone, replaced by the warm air of the ballroom, a mix of candles, perfumes and sweat.

When she reopens her eyes and searches for Peter again, he's gone, as if he's vanished into thin air, a realization that does not exactly make her feel better.

"Olivia."

She's so startled by the sound of his voice behind her that she actually jumps a little, definitely on edge. She turns around, and there he is, not a hallucination at all. Judging by his suit and bowtie, he's actually very real, and very much a part of this reception.

Seeing the evidence doesn't make her feel any better. She frowns in honest confusion, unable to conceal her growing irritation. She isn't sure _why_ she's annoyed, but the fact that the mere sight of him was enough to push her to the edge of a panic attack might have something to do with it.

Now that she knows Peter is not a figment of her imagination, the way his eyes seem to bore into hers becomes very real as well, her heart already racing for different reasons.

"What are you doing here?" She doesn't ask as much as she demands it, her voice low, almost severe.

Peter shrugs, apparently unaffected by her mood. "I was invited," he replies calmly, and his voice is low, too. He's bluntly staring at her, not even blinking anymore; she shivers again.

"Invited," she repeats. "You were...invited. To _this_ wedding reception."

"Is that so hard to believe?" He asks, tilting his head, his eyes glued on her. She cannot help but notice how much darker they look, in the light of the room. "You've heard of the sixth degree separation theory, right? The one that stipulates everyone on this planet can be connected to any other person through no more than five acquaintances? Obviously, we once again beat the odds."

Olivia isn't sure what she could have replied to such a typically _him_, smartass answer, hadn't Lucas chosen this exact moment to come back. She feels him first, as he wraps an arm around her waist, hand on her hip, pinning himself to her side.

"Here you go," he says cheerfully, offering her a glass of champagne.

Olivia doesn't take it, her eyes still on Peter, who has finally looked away from her face. His gaze goes down to her waist, where Lucas' hand rests, before looking up at Lucas.

Olivia instinctively wants to grab Lucas' fingers and pry them away from her, the touch making her feel smothered all over again, even though he's not holding her tightly or possessively. She forces herself to stay still, though, feeling the oddest twinge of satisfaction at Peter's disgruntled look.

"Sorry, did I interrupt?" Lucas asks.

Since she still hasn't looked away from Peter's face, she knows from his tone alone that he's aware of the thick tension he walked into when he joined them.

"It's fine," she says, finally accepting the glass, although she won't drink any of it. Given the situation, she needs her mind sharper, not fuzzier.

"Who are you?" Peter asks, then, not exactly rudely, but she's known him to be much friendlier.

Lucas doesn't seem bothered by it. As he has yet to release her waist –and she has yet to make him, he extends his free hand. "I'm Lucas."

"Lucas," Peter repeats, accepting the hand, his eyes moving back to Olivia's. "_Germany_ Lucas?"

Olivia almost hears their knuckles crack, the two of them 'shaking hands', testosterone flowing. She is more than a little unsettled by Peter's gaze, now, remembering how she had indeed told him about 'Germany' Lucas, a lifetime ago.

"Actually, it's _Boston_ Lucas at the moment," Lucas replies, in a tone that sounds almost pleasant, considering it is anything but, as they finally let go of each other's hand. "And you are?"

"Peter," he answers simply.

"Oh," Lucas says, rather coldly now. "The…partner. I've heard quite a lot about you."

_Shit._

"All in good I hope?" Peter asks, offering Lucas the _fakest_ grin Olivia has ever seen on his face.

Actually, it reminds her strongly of the one he gave her a couple of years ago, when she blackmailed him into leaving Iraq.

"Not exactly," Lucas says.

"Ditto," Peter retorts, his grin already gone, and she watches as they enter what is bound to be the manliest staring contest she's ever witnessed.

"Alright, stop, the two of you," Olivia firmly says, after a couple seconds of this ridiculous staring. She grabs Lucas' hand and shoves it away from her waist, moving to the side so she can face them both, glaring at them in turn. "You better not be about to regress to your twelve year old selves, because I'm warning you, I have a gun under this dress, and I won't hesitate to use it."

Lucas _chuckles_ at her words, making a face, as if this is the most endearing thing he has ever heard. "Seriously?"

Peter doesn't comment on it, but the way he is now giving her body a slow look-over confirms that he doesn't doubt her at all, actually _looking_ for the gun.

When his gaze makes it back to her face and their eyes meet, Olivia's legs suddenly feel much weaker –including the one sporting her holster and her gun. She has to resist the urge to down her entire glass of champagne.

She's been feeling too exposed all evening, wearing that dress, but Peter's stare and the realization that he's far from unaffected by the way she looks is making her aware of it on a whole new level, feeling its weight and texture against her shivering skin. She feels flushed, and she has no doubt that she's blushing, now, her blood warmer than it's been in weeks, especially in her cheeks and much, _much_ lower.

She wants to hate him for causing special Agent Dunham to throw her hands up in the air and give up the fight altogether, leaving Olivia standing on her own in front of him, entrapped in his warm gaze. She's completely unsettled, and yet, in the oddest way, she feels more assured than she has in weeks.

These past couple of months, she's tried so hard to fit back into the old costume of her life, despite the fact that someone else wore that costume during her absence and altered its shape. She herself has changed because of what she experienced. As a result, nothing seems to fit anymore.

This is different.

This is not her trying to remain focused and calm at work, trying to prove herself and the rest of the world that she's doing alright. This is not her being uncomfortable in her own apartment, forced to sleep on her couch because of the ghosts that linger in her bed.

It's only her, right now, being stared at by the only person who has the ability to strip her off of all her defenses; but it goes both ways.

Peter makes her feel completely bare, and yet, she's rarely felt more aware of her own power over a man, staring right back at him. Because she remembers perfectly well the last time she had a similar effect on him, before someone stepped in her place and stole what was once hers.

That is why she will _not_ avert her eyes, unambiguous in what she's silently telling him.

_You belonged with **me**._

…

The way Olivia is staring at him might just be the end of him.

Technically speaking, Peter should be used to it, by now, used to having her catch him off guard. She became his greatest weakness a long time ago, maybe from the moment they met, when she managed to con him within _minutes_.

All she had to do was look at him with those eyes of hers, making it clear that she did not intend for him to be the alpha in whatever dynamic was already forming between them; he was all too happy to give her a run for her money.

He hadn't seen that look in a while, certainly not since she learned about the Switch, as if the realization of how completely and seamlessly she had been replaced had shattered something in her.

She seems to have found some sort of footing tonight, standing her ground, which is intriguing, given the circumstances. Needless to say, now that he's standing in front of her, talking to her and shamelessly staring, his yearning for her has worsened dramatically.

Then, there is the matter of _Lucas_.

The ex-boyfriend from college, who moments ago had his hand pressed to her hip, which, on top of what he's witnessed so far, makes him wonder about their 'exes' status.

Peter has never been a jealous man, not exactly. Because of his protective nature, however, and of the few well-deserved punches he's given through the years, he's been _called_ jealous in the past. By the time Lucas introduces himself, though, Peter hates the guy.

Olivia doesn't owe him anything. She's free to go out with whoever she wishes, even with ex-boyfriends; after everything she's been through, she _deserves_ to be treated well, and part of him wants nothing more than to see her keep on smiling.

He still hates the guy.

Unsurprisingly, the guy hates him right back. Not that Peter cares much about him at the moment, as he and Olivia keep on staring at each other, almost daringly, frying quite a few of his neurons. Once again they are both well aware of the effect they're having on one another.

Eventually, Peter decides to let her win that round, averting his eyes at last, only because he knows it's not over. He looks at Lucas again, the Ex being most definitely aware of the sizzling tension surrounding them. Judging by his scowl, he does not like it much.

"Give us a minute?" Peter asks him, attempting to use a friendlier tone, and _almost_ succeeding.

Lucas' disapproval is obvious. He looks at Olivia, who doesn't seem that pleased either, raising an eyebrow at her, as if asking her if she'll be _okay_ on her own. What an idiot.

It is her turn to scowl, pushing the glass of champagne back in Lucas' hands, "Go," she says, almost daring him to disobey.

After one last glare at Peter, who responds in kind, Lucas is finally gone.

"He seems charming," Peter says, letting the sarcasm drip from his words.

Olivia is the one glaring at him now. "Don't," she shakes her head. "He hasn't done anything to you."

His insides clench, vividly remembering the way Lucas had leaned too close to her at the table, breathing down her neck, not to mention the few words they'd just exchanged.

"He certainly seems to have quite the opinion of me," he replies, not without a hint of accusation.

Her cheeks, already pinker than usual, darken even more; the warm color on her face is a pleasing sight, compared to how pale she's been lately. Everything about her is more vibrant tonight, not simply because of that dress or the makeup she's wearing; as always, Olivia is being affected by the energy of whatever place she's in.

Right now, she's also clearly affected by him, not necessarily in a good way. "What do you expect, Peter?" she asks, sternly. "I don't go around talking about what's happening in my personal life, but sometimes, I do need to talk to someone."

Her words cut deep.

He realized a while ago that she's _not_ happy with him for the fact that too many people at work are more or less aware of what happened during the Switch. Beyond that, what hurts is being reminded that _he_ used to be the person she would talk to. Now, he's not only lost his place as confident, he's become a _topic_ to be discussed with exes.

Naturally, his hurt swiftly turns into resentment.

"I know talking about me behind my back is something you've become quite good at, thanks to my father and his secrets, but I would rather you said to my face whatever you said to Lucas."

Judging by the darkening look in her eyes, he's successfully managed to increase her irritation. She averts her eyes, biting down her lip and shaking her head a little, as if she cannot quite believe his words. He doesn't blame her. He wants to kick himself for saying these things, for getting annoyed at her in the first place.

At the same time, he really doesn't care.

"What difference would it make?" she asks then, looking back at him, shrugging a shoulder. "We don't talk anymore, Peter, about anything."

"And whose fault is that?" He replies, coldly, once again hurt by her truthful observation, needing to return the blow.

He knows at once that he's succeeded, pain flashing in her eyes, before she attempts to retreat behind her anger. Olivia looks both hurt and incensed now, although in typical fashion, it only shows in her changing body language, and in the little ways her face constricts.

"_Excuse_ me?" She asks, almost in disbelief.

He doesn't give himself time to maybe _think_ about what he's doing, because right now, lashing out at her is easier than being reasonable. "Whenever we _do_ talk, you make it perfectly clear you would rather be doing anything else. You certainly always make sure to move as far and as fast away from me as possible."

She shakes her head. "That's not true."

He scoffs. "Sweetheart, you don't even have to say it, your body screams at me to get the hell away from you whenever we are within three feet of each other. I'm actually surprised you're still standing here. You should just go, come to think of it, Lucas is probably missing you."

Peter should be grateful for the fact that she doesn't decide to draw her gun on him at that instant. She certainly looks like she's thinking about it, and he commends her for her self-control.

"You know what? You're right," she sneers, raising both her hands in front of her in disgust. "Go to hell, Peter."

And she walks away from him.

…

Olivia is livid_._

She isn't exactly surprised by the fact that Peter resorted to nasty and immature comments, having heard worse from him back when he used to get angry on a daily basis, but being the recipient of such negativity did not feel good.

In the aftermath of their little 'chat', she has the hardest time calming down. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that part of her doesn't exactly _want_ to calm down.

Frustration and irritation are not pleasant emotions, but they are making her heart beat faster and her body warmer. Compared to the icy apathy she's been stuck in lately, this fiery anger she's experiencing is exhilarating.

Fire is dangerous, untamable, and possibly deadly, but right now, she simply doesn't care, letting it spread.

Lucas only asks her once if he and Peter should take it 'outside' and fight for her pride; he doesn't ask twice, intimidated by her glare. He seems to realize she's not in any kind of mood to enjoy the party anymore, yet he tries, dragging her along to go talk to various people, most of whom she'd met at some point during their dating years. She forces herself to smile, even to small talk a little, but her heart isn't in it.

She's too aware of Peter's presence in the room, of his gaze on her. He's not exactly stalking her, keeping a safe distance, but he remains close enough so that whenever she gives in and looks for him, their eyes always meet within moments.

Even from afar, she knows he's as affected as her, stubbornly holding each other's eyes for long seconds, letting the anger pulse low in her gut.

Eventually, she's had about enough, feeling too constricted among all these people, too worked up to be able to stand being surrounded by hundreds of strangers. Lucas doesn't protest when she asks him to call her a cab. He offers to go back with her, but she declines, a bit too firmly.

The perfect gentleman, he does accompany her outside, protecting them both with an umbrella, the rain falling hard, now. When she sits inside the cab, Lucas doesn't leave right away, leaning in the car.

"I'm sorry you didn't have a good time," he says.

Olivia shakes her head. "It was fine," she replies, which isn't a complete lie. She _had_ been having a good time, until a certain point. "I was glad to see your family again. I just…crowds tire me out fast these days."

He sees through this lie, too, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, he leans in closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "You're gonna be fine, Liv," he says in her ear. Before she can react to it, he's moved back, closing the taxi's door.

These words may have helped her a year ago, it barely does anything to soothe her tonight. Already, the cold is taking over again. She wants to blame it on her brief time outside, but she knows better.

As the taxi begins to move, stopping at a red light almost right away, she becomes too aware of the different aches in her body; her feet and back are killing her, for one thing, thanks to these damn heels, and she has to fight the urge to just take them off and throw them out. She rests her temple against the cold window instead, closing her eyes, shivering, thinking about the hot shower she'll be able to take in a few minutes.

She has to reopen her eyes when the other passenger's door suddenly opens, turning just in time to see _Peter_ climbing in.

"Sir, you can't come in, this taxi's taken," her driver says.

"It's alright, we know each other," Peter says in his most charming tone. "We're actually going to the same place."

"Ma'am?" the driver asks.

In truth, Olivia has half a mind to tell him she has no idea who this man is, just to have the satisfaction of watching him get kicked out. But Peter has already managed to entrap her in his gaze again, quickly causing her insides to clench from the intense return of that same incensing warmth she felt earlier; she can't bring herself to lie.

"It's fine," she says, a lesser lie. Even in the poorly lit car, she can tell Peter is _drenched_. "I can't believe you followed me out."

"Hardly," he says, almost cheerfully. "I just happened to come out of the building just as you were getting in this cab, it was purely coincidental. I realized it would be pointless to get another cab when we could just share this one." She peers at him, aware that if he wanted to, he could have come up with a much better lie. He simply doesn't care. "I'm not gonna lie," he continues, ironically enough. "I assumed Lucas was going to climb in with you, but apparently, he's not the gentleman I thought he was."

She's not fooled by his words. He's fishing for information, probably trying to determine the nature of her relationship with her ex-boyfriend. She's more than a little annoyed by it, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. _Men_.

She tilts her head, then, before casually saying: "He's actually meeting me back at my room in a little while. He had to go back in to say goodbye to his family, it's his brother's wedding after all."

There is pause, during which the tension somehow manages to thicken. "Is he, now," Peter says, his voice even lower.

Her irritation peaks, overwhelmed by a sudden and stifling wave of confusion, annoyance and hurt. "No, he's not," she almost snaps. "But what if he was, Peter? Would you come banging at my door? What I do, or don't do, with whomever I want, is none of your business."

He clenches his jaw in frustration, and she decides then that she's had about enough of his attitude. After the things he said to her in the ballroom, he needs to be given a piece of her mind. "And quite honestly, I think you have some _nerves_, putting the blame on me for how messed up things are between us right now. You don't think _I'm_ confused by your behavior?"

"What?" He almost scoffs.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean," she continues, once again incensed. "I am _trying_, Peter. I'm trying to move on, to move passed this, but I can't do it, because you won't let me."

The universe suddenly decides to give her a break, the taxi stopping in front of Massive Dynamic with perfect timing. Olivia doesn't hesitate, throwing a bill at the driver, "Keep the change," she says before exiting the car.

The rain soaks her within seconds, as she quickly makes her way from the car to the building. The fact that she doesn't break an ankle in the process is a miracle, between the slippery ground and her damn shoes. She's barely three feet into the lobby that she's stops, quickly bending down and getting rid of the heels. She feels a lot smaller, but way more comfortable –as much as she can feel comfortable at the moment.

"Olivia," Peter calls after her, confirming that he's followed her inside.

She ignores him, heels and purse stuck under her arm, going straight for the elevators, pressing the call button. She's shivering again, quite strongly now, as if the rain has put out any kind of warmth she had inside. But the rain isn't the only thing responsible for the returning cold.

She's about to go back inside the elevator, something she absolutely despises doing these days, and she's way too worked up. She _has _to calm down before entering the small car.

Considering Peter has joined her, having apparently decided _now_ is a good time to start ignoring most of her personal space again, calming down in the next few seconds is going to be extremely difficult.

"What did you mean by that, exactly?" he asks, and she can't help but look up at him, just in time to see him bring a hand up to ruffle his hair in an attempt to get some of the water off it, and she hates him a little just for that.

Without her extra few inches, she's almost too aware of their height difference; she's far from being small, but Peter is _tall_. She's aware of too many more things, all of a sudden, of how close they truly are, so close that she can see each droplet of rain on his face, see details in his eyes she hadn't seen in weeks, months, even. He's _too_ close.

How else would she be able to feel the heat radiating from his body, even though his clothes are even more soaked than hers?

Olivia is a mess at the moment, an absolute, confused mess of needs and wants and _don'ts_.

She forces herself to look away, focusing on her breathing instead, trying to deepen her intakes of air. "You're a smart guy," she eventually answers, sounding surprisingly steadier than she feels. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

One of the elevators finally opens, and Olivia steps into it, almost slamming her hand against the button, scanning the key needed to access the loft. Peter follows suit, and she has to fight her latest urge –to push him out of the car.

Her chest is already constricting as the doors close, sealing her inside, all of her senses on overdrive. While she was too aware of Peter a moment ago, she's too aware of the _walls_, now, of how small the elevator is.

There is nothing subtle about the shivers that now travel under her skin, causing her to shudder almost violently.

"I think we need to have a serious talk, you and me," Peter says, but his voice already sounds distant, as if they're not really standing in the same space anymore. Not in the same universe.

She keeps her eyes on the numbers, the way she always does, her breathing too loud, too shallow, her heart pounding furiously beneath her ribs. "Not now," she somehow manages to breathe out.

"Yes, now," he replies tersely, even more distantly. "I can't stand this, Olivia, this constant tension. And I refuse to accept that this is how things are going to be between us from now on."

But Olivia doesn't really hear him anymore.

Her dress is drenched, soaked with water, her skin covered with a thin layer of rain. Her clothes had felt so heavy that night, when they'd pulled her out of the tank, after she'd failed to come home. Walternate had asked them to sedate her, which they had, brutally sticking another needle in her flesh. It didn't even knock her out completely, merely incapacitating her for a few minutes.

Too soon she'd been able to move again, trapped in the dark, and her clothes had been soaked, and so, so _heavy_, smothering her.

She'd been locked in the Room again, with nothing to do but bang against the sealed window, and she had screamed, screamed the way she had on her first night, because she wanted to go _home_, and she almost had, almost, _almost_ had made it back, but they'd thrown her back in the dark instead, back in the Room.

"Olivia?"

She hears Peter's voice, part of her even registering the change in his tone, but he's so far away from her, so far.

The elevator is too small.

The walls are closing in on her, now, she's sure of it, and the air…the air is _vibrating_, isn't it? It's shaking, its atoms distorting, coming apart, preparing to snap her from this world, and back to the other one, back in the dark, back in the Room.

When the elevator comes to a sudden halt and the light vanishes, something in her breaks.

* * *

**A/N:** I lied. This last bit really wasn't fun to write, but it had to happen. Two more parts to go, P/O all the way now. Please don't be shy, especially my silent readers. I always reply to my reviewers with love and...even more love! Virtual cookies?


	5. V

**A/N:** Me again! Wow, I can't believe I'm almost done with posting this story. I'm about to get my life back :')

Thank you all so much for the love you've been giving it so far. I couldn't reply to my "silent readers" because you reviewed as guests, but I'm sending you delicious virtual cookies and warm hugs! *SMOOCHES*

It could be argued that this scene is the reason why I started writing this fic. I'm putting a Feel Warning on that one. I think you'll enjoy it ;)

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**V.**

* * *

By the time Peter becomes aware of Olivia's panic, it's already too late.

She's almost panting in distress, her face constricted, eyes wide, unseeing, her entire body shaking. The second it takes for him to realize what's happening and make the decision to stop the elevator to let her out is a second too long.

Before he can touch the panel, the elevator stops on its own, halting abruptly. The light goes off, plunging them in the dark, and half a second later, a piercing alarm goes off.

Peter doesn't even have time to wonder what the _hell_ just happened, all of his focus on Olivia. Even over the obnoxious siren now echoing off the walls, he hears her panicked whispers.

"No no no no no no…." There is a loud sound, and he knows she's backed herself into the wall. "No no no no no no…"

"Olivia," he calls out, loud enough to be heard over the alarm, moving towards her. "It's okay, it's probably just a false alarm, it's alright."

With his hands extended in front of him, he finds her fingers first, as she's adopted a defensive position. Instead of soothing her, the feel of someone touching her does the opposite, immediately opposing resistance, trying to push his hands off her, the words coming out of her in a breathless whisper, "No please don't, please don't, not again, don't."

Even though he's only tried grabbing her hands, her movements are becoming increasingly violent, her nails scratching his skin, digging into his flesh, as if she's trying to fight off a deadly enemy, repeating the same thing over and over. He instinctively moves forward instead of away in an attempt to immobilize her against the wall, trying to contain her wild energy before she hurts herself in her craze, swiftly using his leg to block hers before she can do too much damage with her knees. She's strong, and completely frightened, but he's stronger.

In an attempt to calm her down, his left hand finds her face, cupping it. "It's alright, Olivia, it's okay."

For a suspended instant, he thinks it's working, as she freezes against him. He soon realizes that she hasn't calmed down at all; she's simply changing tactic. Her hands aren't trying to push him off anymore, one of them now swiftly making its way between them, and Peter understands at once what's she's going for. His free hand zooms down, following hers under the hem of her dress to cover her fingers around what he knows to be the barrel of her gun, his grip firm as she tries to get her weapon out of its holster.

"Olivia, don't," he keeps on repeating, as soothingly as he can manage at the moment, given the noise and their current position. "It's alright, you're safe, it's okay."

The light comes back on as abruptly as it disappeared, less than a full minute ago. The deafening alarm stops, too. In the sudden silence, Olivia's panicked breathing becomes obnoxiously loud. He feels it on his face, too, much closer to hers than he initially realized.

His hands haven't moved, one still on her face, the other under her dress, covering her fingers over her gun. In the newfound light, their eyes lock. Hers are wide and frightened, her pupils so large they've swallowed up most of the green.

"It's okay," Peter repeats, his voice softer, now that the alarm has stopped, aware that she's still trapped in her panic. "You're okay."

Slowly, very slowly, her breathing becomes less hectic, her body progressively relaxing a little. He almost sees it in her eyes, the growing realization of where she is, instead of where she thought she was. The way she looks at him changes, too, from fright and confusion to complete recognition. Pain is what comes next, followed by what looks too much like shame, at which point she closes her eyes, turning her head away from him.

Now that's she's completely still, he's much more aware of the way he's leaning against her, still pressing her into the wall, of his hand on hers, fingertips on her thigh. He knows the exact moment she realizes it, too, as her whole body tenses up again, her face constricting in intense discomfort. She's shaking.

As gently and quickly as possible, he releases his grip on her, pushing himself off and giving her space. "I'm going to use the emergency call button, try and find out what's going on, okay?"

As soon as their bodies stop touching, Olivia seems to curl into herself, her back still pressed to the wall. Although she's reopened her eyes, she doesn't say a word, looking numb, now, but he knows she's back here with him.

Peter forces himself to turn away from her, taking the necessary step to the panel. The light might be back, the elevator still isn't moving. He tries pushing a couple buttons, without success. He pushes the red one, and _that_ seems to work.

When someone picks up on the other line, Peter doesn't waste any time. "Hey, who's this?"

"_This is Kevin from security, sir_."

"Alright Kevin, I'm Peter Bishop," he knows Kevin will recognize the name. "We're inside elevator 7, somewhere between floor 23 and 26 I think. Can you tell me what just happened?"

The other man's voice becomes a lot more anxious and apologetic, having undoubtedly recognized the name indeed. "_There was a small incident in one of the labs. All the elevators automatically shut down when it happens, it's a safety protocol."_

Peter doesn't like the sound of that. "What kind of incident, exactly?"

"_Nothing dangerous, sir, just unexpected enough to trigger the alarm system. Everything has already been contained."_

"Alright, then how long 'til you can get this elevator moving again?"

"_Well, the lockdown is about thirty minutes long, sir, and unfortunately, it can't be overridden._"

"You gotta be kidding," Peter almost grunts. "You're telling me _Massive Dynamic_ doesn't have any way to restore their system in case of a false alarm?"

"_No sir_," Kevin says, regretfully. "_The safety protocol is designed so that_-"

"Yeah yeah," Peter cuts him off. "I get it, they don't want anything getting out of the building. Thanks anyway. Just…make sure the light stays on in here."

"_Absolutely, sir. And Mr. Bishop, I'm really sorry for the incon_-"

But Peter has already released the call button, turning back to Olivia.

While he was talking, she has let herself slide to the ground, now curled up in a corner, knees bent, legs to one side. While she's wrapped an arm around herself, slightly doubled over, her other hand is pressed to her forehead, elbow on her thigh, fingers twisted in her hair, so that it falls in front of her face.

She's still shaking.

Inside his chest, his heart throbs with each beat, until it feels like it has lodged itself at the base of his throat.

"Olivia…" he calls out softly after a long stretch of silence. At least another minute goes by before she moves, pushing her hand further up in her hair, clearing up her face as she raises her head to look at him.

As he dreaded, she's crying. Expecting it doesn't make the sight of her tear-stained face any less painful. As they look at each other, she brings her second arm down, hugging herself tightly. Her expression begins to change, then, her hurt morphing into something else altogether, something…fierce.

She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, her face constricting even more. "I don't need your pity," she says, her voice low, thick with tears.

He's not surprised she's interpreting whatever emotion his face is displaying as pity, even if it can't be further from what he feels at the moment.

He slowly walks to her, sitting down against the wall next to her. He's close enough to touch her, but he makes sure not to. She's not looking at him anymore, her temple now resting against the opposite wall.

"I've felt a great many things towards you these past two years," he finally says, keeping his voice low and soft. "Pity was never one of them."

She doesn't turn her head, doesn't look at him, but her lips purse in that way of hers, her face briefly constricting again, and he sees the small ripples on her wet cheek as more tears roll down. He looks away, knowing she wouldn't want him to stare. If it were up to her, she would never in a million years have allowed him to witness what just happened.

He may have failed her when she needed him the most, Peter still understands her, probably more than she realizes. They've barely spoken to each other since she came back, and she's put too many walls around herself for him to know what's going on in her head, but from what he's seen and heard, he can grasp part of what she must be thinking at the moment.

She's gone through something traumatic, Over There, and to this day, she's still dealing with the after effects. She must hate being so vulnerable right now, having no control over her body. It would be so typical of her, to think of herself as diminished because of it, unworthy, even. Broken.

She's expecting pity from him, because that's the only thing she thinks she deserves to get.

He's been aware of that major flaw of hers for months, years really, of that way she has of thinking herself alone against the rest of the world. What happened definitely isn't helping resolve her trust issues, but he wishes she would realize she doesn't _have_ to be on her own.

Everybody is more or less broken, in their own way.

As the minutes slowly pass, they remain quiet. Peter is not only giving her time to calm down, he's actively thinking about what to do next, trying to come up with a way to get through to her. He realizes that some kind of trust has to be reestablished; to do that, he needs to bring himself to her level.

He's seen her breakdown, which, in Olivia's mind, would mean that Peter has "the upper hand". Given how miserable he's been feeling lately, it shouldn't be too hard for him to show her he's not doing any better.

_We don't talk anymore, Peter. About anything._

And so Peter decides to talk, to talk to her the way he used to; honestly, without holding anything back. Because no matter what happened, whatever she may think of him now, there is no doubt in his heart about how he feels about her.

He still trusts her more than he ever trusted anyone.

"These past few months, I've had a lot of time to think about what it was actually like, growing up as a child kidnapped from another universe," he begins. "I know it sounds _slightly_ overdramatic, said like that, but there really is no other way to put it."

Olivia doesn't move, her head still resting against the wall, eyes closed, but he knows she's listening.

"I'm a fairly intelligent man, generally speaking," he continues, "so I've been aware of my many character flaws for a long time. Until I understood what exactly happened to me during my childhood, though, I couldn't really explain the roots of my issues. For one thing, the fact that I actually cannot remember anything at all before age eight or nine is kinda disturbing. But like I said, I'm a smart guy. I've read a lot, I know what kind of brainwashing and trauma it takes for a child to completely block out part of his life. That's actually something I think we have in common. We were brainwashed by the same man."

She has reopened her eyes. She's still not looking at him, but that's alright. He's not really looking at her anymore either, lost in his thoughts.

"Andy, my childhood best friend, she called me last week, to invite me to her wedding reception, tonight. We met up a few days ago, for the first time in over fifteen years. We hadn't seen each other for that long, because years ago, as soon as I became legally free from my mother, I ran off. Officially, I would say I did it because I couldn't take the pressure of having to decide what to do with myself, and I probably even believed it back then. The truth is, I ran off because I couldn't stand being around my mom anymore. I think part of me already knew I was the reason why she drank herself into a coma every other day. When Walter called me to tell me she'd died, I hung up on him. I didn't even go to her funeral. I had just arrived in Europe, but I dropped whatever job I had at the time, and went to a completely different continent instead. My mother had just killed herself, so why not give China a go?"

Olivia has shifted, head turned, looking at him; he's the one not meeting her eyes, now.

"According to Andy, I have this annoying habit of 'pretending everything is peachy', especially when they're really not. Obviously, it would be a bit too easy for me to blame some of my most recent mistakes on being traumatized as a young child, but I cannot completely dismiss it either. I think it's safe to say it fucked me up pretty bad." He finally meets Olivia's gaze.

She looks calmer, now, although she's too pale. There isn't much emotion in her eyes, beside sheer openness; she's not judging him, or pitying him, or resenting him. She's _listening_ to him.

"Do you remember me telling you I used to have terrible nightmares as a kid?" He asks.

She nods. "You conditioned yourself not to remember your dreams," she says, quietly.

Of course she would remember every word; she probably even remembers his mantra. It would have been so easy for him to ask one of these questions to this other _her_, to check just once, instead of justifying every little thing _she_ got wrong.

Peter swallows hard, forcing himself to stay focused. "My biggest fear as an eight year old was to be kidnapped," he says. "That's what all my nightmares were about. In the most recurrent one, I dreamed I was being taken from my bed, taken from my family. How ironic, right?"

He's smiling, derisive, but she doesn't smile back, staring at him. Eventually, when it becomes clear he's not going to speak again, she averts her eyes, her temple falling back against the wall.

"Are you okay?" He asks softly.

Olivia shakes her head a little. She's stopped crying a while ago, now, but having done nothing to wipe her face, her cheeks glisten in the harsh elevator light, contrasting with the dark smudges of her ruined makeup. She looks too small, huddled up in that corner, pressed against the wall, holding herself tight. It's as if she's hoping the metallic surface will absorb her.

"I just want to get out of here," she whispers, her way of admitting how much it costs her, to be stuck in this tiny space, even though she's calmed down.

Peter has no idea, how anxious she still feels, how _helpless_.

She's been completely shaken by what happened, unable to fully understand it. It doesn't make any sense at all, for her to become so distressed that for a moment, she _truly_ believed herself to be back in that Room, locked away.

In those moments, Peter's hands hadn't been his at all, but soldiers', grabbing her, trying to drag her to the lab, drag her to her death. Even when the light came back and she realized what was happening, that the hands she felt on her were Peter's, not enemies', her body still betrayed her, begging to be let go.

Begging not to be touched.

She's still shivering, but she feels a bit more like herself, now, a worn out version of herself. Listening to him talk had a calming effect on her. She wonders if he will ever know the memory of his voice is what kept her sane, Over There.

He's done talking, though. She's trying to take in everything he said, but she's still having a hard time _breathing_ properly, too aware of the walls around her. She appreciates his honesty, almost relieved by it, but she won't feel better until she gets to leave this elevator.

"Have you told anyone what happened to you, when you were Over There?"

His voice is soft. Warm. She wants to hate the way the mere sound of it fills her with an aching need to move closer to him, to reach for the rest of him. But she can't.

She almost lies, then. She could just bring up the report she wrote, and that he probably read. What would be the point in lying, though? He's just opened himself up to her, without being prompted, without any real motive, although she guesses it had something to do with reestablishing the kind of dynamic and trust they used to have.

He's too good at this.

"No," she eventually answers with a shake of her head, keeping her eyes closed.

She hasn't told a soul.

When she wrote that report, she had to stop herself from saying too much a couple of times, realizing that her own experience was irrelevant to what her side really needed to know. Back then, she also naively believed she would be able to put it all behind, to forget the entire ordeal.

But the wound has festered. It's been slowly wearing her down these past few weeks, robbing her of her sanity, something even these people Over There hadn't managed to do.

She will always be her own worst enemy.

"Olivia," Peter calls out to her in that same quiet voice, and she tries not to look at him, but she's powerless. He looks almost as bare as she feels. "Talk to me. Please."

For a moment, she can hardly breathe again, her chest constricted with hurt, but with something else as well, something that is so tightly linked to _him_, and to herself.

There truly is no pity in his eyes.

Her own eyes are prickling, filling up again, but she doesn't care anymore. She needs to talk, and he wants to listen.

"First time I woke up, after the Opera House…I was in a room not much bigger than this," she finally says, her voice barely louder than a whisper, her eyes already drifting from his.

Given her state of mind and where she is, she could as well be back_ there_ again.

"The only thing in it was a metal bench. They didn't even bother with any kind of mattress. Or light, for that matter." She bites her lip, shaking her head a little, and a couple of tears slip out; she doesn't bother wiping them off, forcing herself to keep going, not to get sucked in the raw memory. "They would leave me in there for hours on end, in the dark. I had no way of knowing what time it was, or which day. But I know it lasted for a few weeks. They would only take me out to drug me, trying to make me believe that I was _her_."

She's unfolded her arms, now tracing the inside of her elbow; even after months, the faint scars left by their careless needles are still visible, and she remembers how it felt, to be strapped to that table, to have them pour their poison in her veins, over and over again

"After a while, I managed to escape. Unfortunately, whatever they did to me finally worked, and I became her. For a time, anyway. The effects didn't last, and I became aware of who I was again." _Because of you_, she doesn't add, _because I held on to you_. "So I did the only thing I could do. I tried to come home. That didn't work either. I failed, so they put me back in the room."

She feels her face constricting again, bringing a hand to her nose. "I thought I was going to die," she admits in a terrified whisper. "They drew these…_marks_, on my face and my body, because they decided my organs were too valuable for me to be sent back alive. The rest of me was just…expendable. I was supposed to die that day. They strapped me to a table, paralyzed me, and…I can still feel the heat of the bone saw against my skin." More tears are rolling down, more tears she ignores, her face contorted to the point of pain, now. "Sometimes, I feel like part of me is still stuck in that room, waiting to die. I just feel…cold, all the time."

As she loses yet another battle to her tears, she cannot bring herself to look at him, especially not after letting this harsh truth out in the open.

Believing so strongly that she was going to die is what had made her feel so elated, during the first few ignorant days following her return. Life had suddenly been bursting with possibilities, with colors and _light_. When all of it was taken from her, violently pulled from her grasp, she was left with nothing.

Thrown back into a tainted life, left to deal with the shame of a betrayal that was too intimate and humiliating, she could not understand why she had escaped death, if this was her reward.

Once again, they remain quiet for a while, after that. Her head is back against the wall as she slowly composes herself, the tears eventually stopping. She feels him, so close to her, yet not touching her. She knows how hard it must be for him not to reach out, unable to give her the kind of comfort that comes most naturally to him. She's glad he doesn't, not because she doesn't want to be touched, quite the opposite.

She's _craving_ for it, now, for that simple human connection, and for the warmth that would come from it. But she's more afraid of how she might react. She can't stand the thought of her own body tensing and recoiling from him again.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," he eventually says, and his voice is hoarse, now, sorrowful.

She turns her head to look at him. He looks as he sounded. Miserable. Holding his gaze, she offers him one of her saddest smiles, shaking her head a little. "Don't apologize," she says, and she wonders if they're having the same déjà-vu. "What happened to me Over There isn't your fault."

When he swallows, she sees his Adam's apple moving up and down, his eyes reddening even more. Most of the rain has dried from his face, but his hair still looks wet, like the rest of his clothes.

"Isn't it, though?" He asks, in that same thick voice. "You would never have crossed over to come get me if I had stayed in this universe. I did what I always do, I didn't think about the consequences, I just…I followed _him_ as soon as he offered me to go 'home' with him."

"I know," Olivia says, quietly. "I saw the video surveillance from the motel."

She remembers watching it, watching him disappear from her world, her universe, her life, in one flash of light. One moment, he was there, and the next, he was gone. No hesitation, no need to be persuaded, even after being told he would never be able to cross back over, never to see whoever he was leaving behind again.

Including her.

Such an abrupt departure hurt even more than finding out he'd checked himself out of the hospital and left Boston without a word, confirming what she had only strongly suspected in his hospital room. That he blamed her as much as he blamed Walter for her silence and her lies.

After what he said earlier, about the way he'd run from home fifteen years ago and never looked back, she feels like she understands him better, understands that it didn't mean he didn't care; it didn't have much to do with her at all.

Olivia shrugs a little. "If we're trying to put the blame on someone for this, then it could as well be my fault, for not telling you the truth the first time I saw you glimmer."

Even though the topic they're discussing is far from being 'light', she realizes that the stifling tension that has been hanging over them these past few weeks is gone. Not _all_ tension is gone, but the one that remains isn't suffocating. It feels more…familiar.

"Was it after Jacksonville?" He asks then. In that moment, they're both aware this is a discussion they should have had a long time ago. In some ways, it feels like they're resuming the one they started months ago, after she found him Over There.

She simply nods, not elaborating. She has no doubt he remembers her behavior, that night they were supposed to go out for drinks, only for her to quickly give up and pretend she was suddenly too tired for it. He surely remembers the weeks that followed, too, the awkwardness he thought was caused by that kiss they almost shared, and his father's increasing distress.

What a mess. One of them should have just told him.

As if reading her mind, Peter speaks again, shaking his head. "I probably would have run anyway, even if you'd told me. Like I said, that's one of these things I do."

She smiles, tiredly, but it's an honest smile. "Then this conversation is chasing its tail. We would still be where we are right now." He stares at her, frowning a little in confusion. "I would have crossed over to get you no matter what, even if I hadn't lied to you," she explains. "I didn't come after you out of guilt, Peter."

She certainly hadn't.

Even now, she isn't sure she did it out of pure concern for his well-being either. When she'd learned he was in danger, the way she jumped on the opportunity was more than a little desperate. Seeing that drawing gave her a _reason_ to go after him, to seek him out, to find him. When he left with his Father, he made his choice clear and definitive.

Going through the fabric of the universe because she _missed_ a guy wasn't a good enough reason. Going through the fabric of the universe to tell that same guy that he might be responsible for the end of both worlds if he didn't come back with her sounded a lot more reasonable.

Ultimately, like she made it clear that night, she hadn't looked for him for the universes' sake. She sought him out because the day she watched him disappear, she'd lost a piece of herself.

Peter sees it in her eyes, what he had seen in them Over There. That certainty.

She hadn't come to get him out of guilt, but what he feels right now is most definitely guilt, closing off his throat and lungs, scorching his insides. She's too emotionally drained to even try and conceal how she still feels about him, and as he looks at her, looking at him, all he wants to do is _scream_.

"I should have known, Olivia," he manages to say through his constricted throat.

"It's okay," she says, and her voice is as soft as her eyes. "I do get it, you know. Probably a lot more than I did when you first told me about it. Considering I surprised myself that night when I asked you to come back for me, I guess it took you by surprise, too. Of course you would think things were going to be different, after that, especially once we got…together. And I can't really blame you for liking it, liking her. I _was_ her. I know she's more…" she hesitates on what word to use, and he's not sure he wants to know what goes through her mind, "…lively."

He swallows hard, briefly closing his eyes. He cannot let her go on thinking this had anything to do with him liking her alternate more than her, in any way.

"Olivia," he says tentatively. "About her, and the relationship I had with her…"

But she shakes her head; already, her body is tensing again. "Don't, it's okay."

"No, it's not," he insists. "Please, hear me out. I need to say this."

She takes a deep breath, tilting her head, "Alright," she says, obviously bracing herself.

It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, aware that he cannot afford to screw this up by saying the wrong thing. "What I had with her," he starts. "I wish I could say it didn't happen, that it doesn't mean anything, none of it, but I can't. Because it did happen. I was in a relationship with her for the better part of two months. I was committed to it, to her, so I cannot simply make all of it…disappear."

Olivia has averted her eyes, and even though she doesn't say a word, barely moves at all, he knows he's hurting her. But he has to say this in order to get to his point.

"The thing is, despite it all, it still wasn't real, Olivia." Almost cautiously, she looks back at him. "I made myself believe that it was real, just like I made myself believe that these changes I noticed, they were because I was making you happy. I was arrogant. I rationalized everything. I spent two months with someone who wasn't you, but she wasn't even _her_ either. She was…she was a projection of what I wanted to have, of what _she_ thought I wanted to have."

She's not even blinking anymore, rapt in his words, and so he keeps going.

"Truth is, looking back at these few weeks, there was nothing, nothing beyond the physical anyway. The discussions we had…they were shallow. She was either telling me what I wanted to hear, or manipulating my actions, favoring…'distractions', over communication, and I let her. Not just because I thought she was you, but because I thought I _had_ you. She used my feelings, those very real feelings I came to have for you over months spent by _your_ side, day after day. She turned them against me, and I ended up hurting you in a way that I just can't-"

He stops, taking a steadying breath, never breaking eye contact; hers are too bright again. "She wasn't you," he repeats, more softly, using her own words. "I see that now. Too late, much too late, but…I just want you to know that I realize what I've lost when I lost _you_."

Before Olivia averts her eyes again, he sees the tears that are threatening to fall, her face constricting. She's trying not to break again, her breathing slow, a bit too loud. Another minute of relative silence passes before she's able to speak again; she doesn't look at him as she does so.

"I miss it, Peter," she whispers. "Whatever we had, before all this, I miss it. I miss…us." And then, after a pause, so quietly he almost has to read it on her lips, "I miss you."

His throat is too constricted for him to speak. Instead, his hand slowly reaches for hers, resting on her lap. His fingertips barely brush the top of her hand, the touch light, just like it had been a couple of years ago.

Back then, her excursion in the tank had made it so that he'd had no other choice but to touch her. This small contact on the bench had been different, though. It was the first time he truly reached out for her, letting her know she wasn't alone.

Tonight, he wants her to realize that he's still here with her, here _for_ her.

When Olivia looks down at her lap, his hand has already retreated, falling back between them on the floor. As she raises her eyes to meet his, her heartbeat is already speeding up again, but it's not from panic or anguish, this time.

The feel of his fingers on her hand was so fleeting she could as well have imagined it. She knows it happened, though, shivers having traveled all the way up her arm. She hadn't recoiled from it.

Her body had not only allowed it, it longs for more, now, as she stares into his eyes, and sees nothing but kindness, and the reflection of her own pain.

"I miss you too…" he says, quietly.

She looks back down between them, and almost hesitantly, she's the one reaching out for his hand, then. Palm up, she slides her fingers under his, slowly intertwining them, squeezing gently. He returns the pressure, palm against palm, and Olivia closes her eyes as she feels the heat passing from his skin to hers, gradually warming up her entire arm. She feels him move, then, the air thickening around her. When she reopens her eyes, his face is closer to hers.

She almost awaits the panic that will grip her again at his proximity, at his fingers holding hers, but the panic doesn't come. What comes instead is different, a low, low warmth, an ache in her chest.

With the same slowness, his hand releases hers, bringing it up between them. He's tentative, not shy, but cautious, aware of how she might react; she's grateful for his concern, but the moment his fingers brush her cheek, she knows she will not recoil from his touch anymore.

The heat of his palm, the one she'd felt against her own only moments ago, that same heat is spreading over her face, now, his hand cupping her cheek. It spreads down her neck, to her chest, through her skin, flesh and bones.

She's almost overwhelmed by it, her eyes closing again as she brings her own hand up to cover his, increasing the pressure and sinking into his touch, the air rushing out of her lungs. Already, she's shifted, turning her body closer to his as his second hand comes up to cup the other side of her face, his fingers splaying over her jaw and neck, and every nerve ending he touches, he ignites.

She feels his hold on her, the gentle pull he exerts, quietly awaiting her permission. After weeks of sheer loneliness and cold, she craves for it, for this closeness, for more of _him_. She makes her consent known by moving, shifting yet a little closer, her other hand reaching out for his shirt. Her fingers close around the fabric, feeling the rain water that soaks it; she feels the same wetness against her bare skin a moment later, when she slips one of her knees between his legs, straddling his thigh.

His breath is on her face, then, and she forgets about the rain, she even forgets about the walls. His lips are butterfly wings upon her closed eyelid, upon the other one, brushing her skin. Slowly, they travel over what seems to be every inch of her face. Just like the initial feel of his fingers on her hand, his touch is soft, undemanding. With a hand still holding on to his shirt, her other arm moves, wrapping it around his shoulders to bring herself closer to him, always closer.

His fingers, like his lips, begin to move, over her face, her neck, sinking into her hair; that touch too is light at first, before it gradually becomes more pronounced. His thumbs stroke, chasing the last of her drying tears, while the pad of his fingers press into her flesh and bones, soon massaging her scalp. He's relaxing all of her muscles while awakening her every nerve.

The feel of his lips is more noticeable, now, as he puts more pressure into each kiss, lingering longer against her blushing skin. And that low, low warmth…it keeps on spreading, until it's thumping deep, slowly thawing the ice that kept her frozen to the core.

She clings to him, pressed into him, not caring about the damp coldness of his clothes, because he's not cold, he's not cold at all, his mouth and breath now scorching the side of her neck, with that same tender sensuality that is liquefying her every cell.

* * *

**A/N:** So, yes, I'm stopping here.

I had to split it because believe it or not, the next and last part is even _longer_ than this one, and stopping any further than this would have been even meaner xD As you may have guessed the next part will most definitely be M rated, to make up for being such a tease.

In any case, I really, really loved writing this whole scene, so I hope you enjoyed reading it, too ;) Reviews are my favorite thing, my very favorite thing.


	6. VI

**A/N:** Happy Fringe Friday! I don't have the ability to bring our show back, but I have the ability to bring you...smutty things? How does that sound? :p

Here we go then, 6th and final part of this story. I held nothing back, and this is most definitely M rated. I am going to go and sob in a corner now because I won't be able to work on this story anymore, but please, enjoy the ride ;)

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**VI.**

* * *

Olivia is trembling against him.

Peter has been aware of it the moment he first reached for her face, feeling the small tremors that shook her body, like ripples beneath the surface of her skin.

He's deliberately slow in every move he makes, in every caress and kiss she allows him to give her. He's not only insuring that her body knows he's not a threat, he's also answering his selfish need to care for her, to be the one helping her mend these wounds that were inflicted on her. From the way she progressively softens under his fingers and lips, the tension slowly leaving her muscles as she sinks against him, he knows how much she needs this.

He's aware of his own desire, of his longing for her, but he easily pushes it aside, irrelevant at the moment. Because Olivia trembles in his arms, and even though some of these shivers are caused by him and what he's doing, there is more to it.

_I just feel…cold, all the time_.

His longing is unimportant compared to that ache in his chest. He didn't lie when he said he did not pity her; he could never pity her. But he hurts for her. He's been hurting for her ever since they first met, and he watched as she risked her life and sanity for the man she loved. Even in the aftermath, beaten down and broken up by that same man, she stood right back up, stubborn and fierce, pushing through her sorrow.

The fact alone that she's in his arms, with her hand now buried deep in his hair as his face remains nestled against her neck, is proof of her incredible force of character, of her compassion and ability to forgive. Less than an hour ago, he thought he would never get to touch her again, yet there she is, her body as close to his as physically possible at the moment, one of her legs still trapped between his. He feels the rise and fall of her chest against his, heaving a little now, the smell of her skin and growing desire clouding his mind. She's clinging to him, but he clings to her with equal force.

Because he's been feeling as empty as she feels cold, and for the first time in weeks, he's beginning to feel whole again.

Given the slow pace of Peter's ministrations, and what they are doing to both her body and mind, it takes Olivia a moment to realize he isn't moving anymore; his breath, although a bit too shallow, is steady against her neck.

His arms have come around her, and she becomes aware of the way he's tightening his hold, fully embracing her, holding her closely to him. When earlier, this same move might have caused her to tense and push him away, it only makes her whole body slump even more into his, responding in kind, one of her arms around his shoulders, her other hand buried in his drying hair. When she moves her fingers through it, soothingly, his breathing hitches against her skin.

She has no doubt now that he's been hurting, maybe not for the same reasons, but probably as deeply. She almost feels remorseful, for not acknowledging his pain, or not properly, but there really is no point to it, not anymore. Everything is out in the open, and the way they cling to each other speaks louder than any word.

They're castaways, the two of them. Thrown overboard, left to drown in a sea of deceptions and manipulations. Somehow, they managed to find each other through the storm.

Eventually, Olivia shifts again, pulling away to look at him, bringing both her hands to his face, cupping his jaw. His stubble prickles her palms, just like his gaze prickles her soul, and it's a soft roughness that fits him well, this man she loves; the boy she crossed over to save.

As they look into each other's eyes, she's reminded of the night she found him Over There, when she saw him again for the first time in weeks.

One fundamental difference tonight is that craving inside of her, one that was only starting to blossom back then. She had felt pulled to him, but not in such a carnal way. She _needs_ to feel, now, needs to touch, and to be touched. Only moments ago, he was breathing warmth back into her, and she aches for more.

He hasn't made a move, and yet, he's once again pulling her to him through his gaze alone. She leans forward until her nose is pressed against his, her parted lips hovering only an inch from his, tingling in anticipation. There's no more room for anxiety or fear; there's only room for his warm breath, for the feel of his arms, somehow managing to tighten around her.

She knows he won't initiate a kiss, letting her lead. And so she leads, leaning in again until her lips graze his, being intentionally slow. She barely puts any pressure into the kiss, in an attempt to draw him out. He remains still at first, almost docile, until her lips part again, and she breathes out against his mouth, letting out a rush of hot, quivering air. She feels the shudder that courses through him, and it's as if he's been jolted awake, pushing himself forward as one of his hands moves to the back of her head, entangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her close.

She responds with equal fervor, her fingers digging in his face, their mouths meeting at different angles with increasing hunger. When he eventually captures her lower lip between his teeth, nibbling the plumb flesh just hard enough to send a surge of heat right through her, electrifying her entire body, what little self-control she'd retained simply vanishes.

She lets go of his face, swiftly wrapping her arms around his shoulders and neck to bring their bodies closer. She manages to suck in another breath, before pressing her mouth to his again, open and hot, now, needing to _taste_ him. He opposes no resistance to the feel of her tongue gliding over his lip, letting her in, anything but passive as he comes to meet her, soon creating an enticing friction that will be enough to wreck her nerves.

With his fingers still twisted in her hair, his other hand is on the move, then, leaving her back to briefly rest on her leg, still entrapped between his. She registers the feel of his fingers slipping under her dress, of his palm pressing into her thigh. It starts moving upward, sensually massaging her flesh just like his tongue massages hers, his thumb trailing the sensitive skin on the inner side of it.

The warmth spreads, gathering somewhere deep within her, pulsing more strongly now, causing her to sway into him, seeking a closeness they cannot yet achieve. When his nails graze the fabric of her underwear, the mere thought of these fingers of his slipping in, touching her where she's aching to be touched, is enough to induce a full body flush. Dizzied by this sudden head rush, she's forced to break off their kiss to breathe.

Olivia is intoxicating, and just as intoxicated, moving against him in ways that are making every cell in his body swell and quiver.

Under his palm, the skin of her thigh is a perfect combination of smoothness and warmth, and he swears he feels each of the shivers that travel up her leg as his hand moves. The shift of her hips is almost subtle at first, but as his thumb disappears further between her legs over delicate skin, she's not so subtle anymore. When she lets go of his mouth to breathe, his own lungs in need of air, he reopens his eyes to look at her. He's more than appreciative of the way her face has turned to a shade of pink he has rarely seen on her.

When she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, the gleam and haze he sees in hers match her flushed skin. All things considered, he should be used to seeing desire in her gaze, but he's never been more aware of how truly different this is. Because these eyes, these damn, haunted eyes of hers, they were missing all along.

Somehow, the other _her_ always managed to look in control, even in the midst of what he considered to be their most passionate embrace. Back then, he thought that of course, Olivia Dunham would be in control no matter what. It had been nothing but a deviously orchestrated act.

Because he has seen _this_ Olivia abandoning all semblance of control when particularly driven by whatever she's feeling at the time. The nature of said feeling does not matter; anger, grief, or fear, she will cave to them all, in the end.

More and more often, he'd watched as Olivia let her walls fall in his presence, her trust in him being such that she allowed herself to be emotionally bare in front of him, agonizingly human.

_It's too late. I failed._

No control. Absolute vulnerability.

That is what Peter sees now, as she lets her lust prevail over everything else, her lust for _him_. Seeing these small yet unmistakable signs of arousal on her, knowing he's responsible for them, causes his blood to feel several degrees warmer in his veins. It also fills him with this aching, relentless need to _love_ her, to make her feel without a shadow of a doubt that she's most definitely alive, to yank that part of her still stuck in that prison of hers, and bring her back here with him, where she belongs.

Driven by this thought, their dynamic changes. While she had mostly been leading, with him gladly following, Peter now takes charge. Capturing her lips with his again, his hand moves further up under her dress until he's grabbing her hip, his other hand leaving her hair to circle her waist, getting a steady hold on her. He opens up his legs to release hers, before pulling her up, closing his legs.

She instinctively straddles him again, more fully now, as he expected, and he shifts their bodies, pressing his back more firmly to the wall. With his arm still around her waist, she brings herself closer to him, their hips now aligned. She seems to approve of their increased proximity, soon rolling the entire length of her body into his, pressing against the hard evidence of his desire, and she lets out a low groan against his mouth, as he swallows back one of his own.

He cannot let himself get sidetracked by how good she feels, determined on keeping the focus on her. Using his hold on her, he then pulls her _off_ his chest so that she's nearer to his knees, just enough to ease his reach; it's not much, but the movement causes her to let go of his lips, straightening up, hands on his shoulders.

He sees the slight confusion on her face, and something close to a disgruntled scowl, before he moves his hand, the one still under her dress. He doesn't hesitate, slipping inside her panties, sliding his fingers through her wet warmth, his palm pressing. Any hint of annoyance dissolves at once, as her lips part and her face constricts, followed by a loud sound near his head, where she's just slammed her hand.

He watches, transfixed, as her cheeks turn several shades darker within seconds, seconds during which she doesn't breathe at all. When she finally does, her intake of breath is sharp, inhaling loudly through her nose as she leans forward again, resting her forehead against his. Although mostly trapped against her heat, his hand doesn't remain still very long, his fingers slick and aiming to please, applying a moving pressure upon the collection of nerves. She bucks in his hand, and the moan that soon reverberates around them seems to have come from the base of her throat.

Olivia is burning up.

What started out as a low warmth has morphed into a growing wildfire, her body so unused to the feeling anymore that the probability of her auto-combusting right here in that elevator is becoming quite high, and she cannot care less.

Her brain has been hijacked, short-circuited by the waves of pleasure that are originating from between her legs, where Peter's hand is now entrapped. Having lost the ability to think properly, her body is more than gladly taking over, her hips rising and descending, once more completely leaning against him, a hand still splayed upon the wall. With her other arm tightly wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into the jacket over his shoulder, she's oddly aware of his water-soaked clothes, their coolness contrasting vibrantly with her burning skin.

He's moved his face again, brought it back to her neck; within moments, he finds a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of her jaw, sucking at her pulsing point. Given the way she's now pressing herself into him and the angle of his hand, he's not even trying to do more than stroke her, but it is more than enough and already too much, following the rise and fall of her hips, applying just the right pressure, at just the right pace. When he starts using his tongue instead of his lips against her neck, languid and hot, she begins to see stars, moaning his name near his ear.

Understandably enough, none of them registers the changes at first.

Part of her becomes vaguely aware of the way the floor is now vibrating beneath them. Thirty minutes ago, that sensation might have been enough to cause her to panic again, thinking herself pulled back to the other side, but that thought barely crosses her mind. She's too entangled in Peter, too dazed with pleasure and warmth to worry about it, safe in his arms.

A sound makes it through her daze; something is ringing. The elevator seems to be working again, and judging by Peter's sudden stillness, he's come to the same conclusion.

The moment isn't awkward as much as it is confused, having to interrupt what they were doing in order to deal with what is happening. Olivia feels groggy, not exactly sure how she's gone from straddling him to sitting on the floor again, Peter now obviously in the process of getting back on his feet. She does feel his hand on her cheek, which he briefly cups, his thumb tracing her flushed cheekbone, almost as an apology, before he stands back up.

As he steps to the panel, Olivia tries to clear her mind, forcing herself to breathe more steadily. She's shaking again, she realizes, but the reaction could not have felt more different. She feels like she's become aware of every nerve in her body, stuck in an odd sticky mist, aroused and unsatisfied. Her hazy gaze finds her discarded shoes and purse on the floor, and she grabs at them just as Peter answers the call.

"Kevin," he greets, his voice lower than usual, slightly hoarse; she swears it travels all the way to her, _through_ her, feeding that throbbing ache in her gut. She takes another deep breath, deciding she should try and stand up now, in an attempt to distract herself. The elevator actually stops at their floor, then, the doors finally sliding open, and Peter casually sticks an arm out to prevent them from closing again.

"_Mr. Bishop_," Kevin says. "_You probably noticed it, but, uh, the elevators are back online. Should only be a couple minutes before their security cameras start working again, too._"

With perfect synchronicity, they both look up at the ceiling, looking for the small lens. Sure enough, there's the camera. They briefly meet each other's eyes, confirming that they'd both forgotten about that.

"Thanks for the head's up," Peter says. "You have a good night now."

"_You too, Mr. Bish_-" but once again, Peter has released the button before he was done talking.

Olivia has managed to get back on her feet, feeling more than a little wobbly, especially when she meets Peter's eyes again, and she's never been more attracted to someone in her life.

His hair is almost completely dry now, and given the way she was tugging at it, a mere five minutes ago, it's definitely disheveled. His bow tie is coming undone, two of his shirt buttons having somehow popped open. If it weren't for that security camera about to come back online, she'd just push him right back down to the floor and resume what they'd been doing. From the darkening look in his eyes, she has no doubt he's thinking the same thing.

But the doors are open, his arm still blocking the way, and her desire for open space overtakes her desire for him.

Momentarily, at least.

When Olivia looks out the elevator, Peter cannot blame her for the way she then makes a beeline for the loft. He did not quite expect for her to extend a hand and grab his shirt as she passes him, but he gladly lets himself be pulled out. By the time the doors are closing again behind him, she's dropped her shoes and purse to the ground and wrapped both her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her and capturing his lips with unmistakable impatience, spinning them on the spot.

She keeps on pulling, and he keeps on pushing, both his hands buried in her hair. There is another _thump_ as her back hits the metallic doors, but she doesn't seem to mind at all, especially when he keeps on pushing, pinning his body more firmly into hers. He still very much wants to make this about her, but she's a lot less complaisant now that they're not trapped anymore, rippling against him, purposefully pressing herself into the hard bulge in his pants while sucking on his tongue.

As he groans, the sound muffled against her mouth, her hands are already slipping inside his jacket to push it off his shoulders, forcing his hands off her in the process, until it falls at their feet. She starts raking her nail over his shirt, inducing strong shivers as she goes, and it's his turn to break the kiss to breathe.

When he brings his hands back up to cup her cheeks again, he does it more gently this time, tilting her face up and locking his gaze with hers. The only light in the room comes from that fake fireplace somewhere behind them, and from the lights of the city through the window on his right. He doesn't need more, his eyes having already adjusted.

He cannot quite believe this is happening, unable to understand how she can truly be here with him, having overtaken all of his senses. He doesn't need to say a word for her to follow his train of thoughts, one of her hands coming up to the back of his head, her thumb ruffling his hair. He sees that certainty in her eyes again, letting him know this is exactly where she wants to be. When she uses her grip on his nape to pull him down, he doesn't resist, leaning in. Their next kiss might be slower, it certainly doesn't lack in passion, his hips pressed into hers, as if he's trying to fuse her to the doors.

When Peter's phone begins to ring, forcing his mouth off hers, Olivia swallows back a frustrated groan, tired of the interruptions. Judging by his scowl, deepening the crease between his eyes, he's not happy about it either. Still, one of his hands leaves her skin to get the phone out of his pants' pocket, sighing as he reads the screen.

"Walter?" She asks, the first time she really speaks in a while, and her voice barely sounds like her own, low and husky.

"Who else would have such a perfect timing?" He replies with just the right amount of sarcasm, and she finds herself smiling. "I should take it though."

She simply nods, understanding. Even as he accepts the call, bringing the phone to his ear, his other hand remains on her face a moment longer, his eyes boring into hers as he runs his thumb over her lower lip.

"Walter," he greets, cheerfully enough. Then, he's frowning again, his eyes leaving hers, focusing on his father. "You _what_?"

He asks Walter to put Astrid on the phone, before reluctantly moving away from Olivia. She stays against the doors for a few moments, focused on her breathing, still a bit lightheaded from the diverse sensations that have taken over her body. She tries to listen to Peter's words, something about the kitchen and the microwave, but her gaze has already drifted to the window. Just like she had the first time she came up here, she finds herself drawn to it.

As she comes to stand in front of the glass, hugging herself, feeling chilly again without Peter's warmth, she begins to understand why this scenery feels so familiar, especially at this hour. Even through the rain, the view of New York has transformed, the buildings' lights brightening the night.

A few weeks ago, she had looked for the Twin Towers, not simply because her double's memories still overlapped with hers on occasions. Unconsciously, she had been reminded of the last time she had seen such a view of New York's skyline, of how her gaze had stopped on the towers' shapes, distant, but there, visible from Peter's apartment.

Over There.

Olivia had been checking on Charlie, still unconscious on the floor, while Peter quickly gathered every piece of information on the Machine his biological father had given him. There were in a hurry, by then, less than thirty minutes left until she was supposed to meet up with Walter and Bell. Yet, as she crouched near Charlie's body, a movement caught her attention from the corner of her eyes; another one of these blimps moving across the window. Soon, she was standing in front of it, taking it all in. It had felt so surreal, all of it, the knowledge that she truly was in an _alternate_ universe, a universe in which the Twin Towers still stood.

She had felt Peter's hand on her elbow, then, gentle but insistent. He barely glanced at the view, his eyes fixed on her face, with that same bewildered intensity he seemed to be struck with ever since her admission, minutes ago.

"Let's go home," he'd said.

_Let's go home_.

These had been his words, even after he'd admitted feeling like he didn't have a place in either universe, even though the world they were still in _was_ his. He truly had a choice, then, the choice to stay, to try and make it work here, to give himself a chance to adapt and learn to blend in, something he was naturally good at. He hadn't felt like he belonged, but given enough time, he could have found his place again in this universe he was born in, one in which his _mother _was still alive.

Yet, Peter gave it all up. He gave up his mother and his world with barely one last glance, because Olivia had _asked_ him to.

_I came back for you._

She had known that for weeks, but in the aftermath of the Switch, she never fully understood what it meant.

"Olivia?"

She's startled out of her contemplation, eyes still lost in the city, once again confused for a second, unsure if she's here or _there_. She looks over her shoulder, finding Peter standing a few feet away, bringing her back to the present. Back to him. She becomes aware of the way her heart is racing again, shortening her breathing, shaken by her sudden epiphany.

When Peter had hung up the phone and turned back to find Olivia standing in front of the window, only inches from the glass, all thoughts of Walter and his latest disastrous experiment in the kitchen had escaped his mind.

She was elsewhere again, and the last thing he wanted was to alarm her by surprising her. She only flinches a little when he calls out her name, but when she turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, the way she stares at him causes his insides to ache.

"Are you okay?" He asks softly, still not moving.

She offers him a small smile, tilting her head, before shaking it a little, and in the buildings' lights streaming through the window, her eyes look too bright.

"You came back…" she says, almost in a whisper, before turning away, back to the view, briefly pressing her fingers to her lips.

Peter is confused for a moment, thinking she's referring to him walking away to answer that phone call. He's a genius, but he's always a bit too slow in times like these.

The true meaning of her words finally sinks in, causing the ache to grow. Because he _had_ come back for her.

She's the sole reason for his presence in this universe, the reason why he stayed, even when he thought he'd lost her for good. He thought she had realized that a long time ago, but judging by the way she seems to be fighting with her emotions again, she hadn't.

Peter walks to her, then, until he's standing behind her, slowly wrapping her in his arms. She sinks into him, offering no resistance, not a trace of fear, resting her hands over his. It will take time for her to heal from everything that happened to her, but she's safe with him, and maybe that's enough for now.

He doesn't say anything; there's no need. Already, she's brought a hand up, reaching for the back of his head, her fingers sinking in his hair again. She lets him know what she does need from him, pinning herself more firmly into him, briefly pressing her face to his neck. He has to close his eyes when he feels her breathing in, breathing _him_ in, tightening his embrace.

Her fingers are moving in his hair, her grip just firm enough to create shivers that shoot from his scalp, all the way down his spine, adding to the warmth pooling low. When she moves her head away from his neck, exposing her own, he answers to her quiet call. Bending down, he presses his mouth to her skin, sucking it between his lips as his hands begin to move, slowly traveling over her dress in opposite directions.

He reaches her breast first, her fingers still covering his as he squeezes through the fabric of her clothes, keeping his lips to her neck, intent on leaving his mark this time. He's only slightly distracted by the way this double assault causes her to arch against him, into him, a reaction that ultimately drives him on. The hand traveling south is gathering her dress up, pulling at it to access her skin, going for assault number three.

When he reaches further down, though, his fingers encounter roughness on her thigh. It only takes him a second to understand he's found her holster again. He had felt the presence of her gun earlier when she was straddling him, impossible to miss, but he had been too focused on her to pay much attention to it.

He's paying attention, now, the feel of her holster sending a surge of heat through him. In all these months spent by her side, he's often joked about how she's the one with the gun, a weak attempt to conceal how alluring it's always been to him.

Having mostly been raised by a woman, he never had any illusion about a so-called 'male superiority', and therefore never felt threatened by women in position of authority, or by the sight of _this_ woman holding her gun, actually admiring her and respecting her for it.

Because no matter what, Olivia always carries this power within her, this untamable force; her gun is a mere projection of it. Right now, in the form of that holster hidden beneath her dress, that notion collides with his awareness of how raw and vulnerable she is against him.

His desire for her peaks, causing his body to take charge, pushing her forward until she's pressed against the window, her free arm now pinned to the glass, her other hand still in his hair.

The glass panel is icy cold against Olivia's skin, once again burning up, a contrast that overwhelms her senses. One of his hands is still on her breast, massaging, his warm mouth on her neck, and she's acutely aware of the way his hard arousal presses into her lower back. The air is momentarily blocked in her throat, swept by a wave of aching lust and fast growing pleasure, her eyes lost in the skyline.

She feels as if she's suspended in the air, high over the city, free falling…until his other hand resumes its movement, leaving her holster alone and swiftly finding its way back between her legs. When his fingers slide between her folds again, knowing exactly where and how to press, her forehead drops upon the window, and the city becomes a blur as the air finally rushes out of her, his name fogging the glass.

With her next intake of breath, she forces herself to let go of his hair, needing both her hands to push herself off the window. She has no doubt he could successfully make her come right there, against that glass panel, quite hard and fast, judging by the mounting pressure in her gut, but she would rather have his body against hers than a cold window.

Her yearning for him has become so intense, she's almost frantic as she turns in his arms. He offers no resistance, easing the process by briefly relinquishing his various holds on her. When he brings both his hands back to her face, pulling her up into a hungry kiss, she circles his waist, pressing their bodies together, her head fogged with need and desire. All ten of her fingers grab for his damp shirt, then, pulling not so gently, clutching fistful of it and freeing it from his pants.

Peter lets go of her mouth to help her pull it over his head, something she's only able to do because it's slightly too big on him. She swiftly brings her arms back around him, pressing her face to his neck; his skin is so warm, and he feels and smells so good. As she opens her mouth, her turn to taste him, she feels his hands in her hair, twisting deliciously, feels the vibrations that travel through his chest and throat before she even hears him groan, her blood rushing in her veins, pulsing down below.

She tightens her grip on him, then, pushing both forward and downward, causing him to stumble a few steps backward, until he catches up with what she's trying to do and starts lowering himself. Soon, he's sitting on the carpet, his hands still entangled in her hair as she straddles him again.

Peter doesn't question her, doesn't bother mentioning the various bedrooms, or even that couch right there. Her eyes are dark and slightly hazy, her pupils having once more swallowed up most of the green, her skin flushed, even starting to glisten a little. She wraps her arms around his neck again, her mouth finding his, open, eager, and hot; when he lets go of her hair to grab her buttocks, pulling her firmly to him and matching the rolling of her hips, she bites down on his bottom lip with a muffled moan; it barely stings, his brain and blood flooded with endorphin.

Judging by her loud, heaving breathing and the look on her face, she's even farther gone than him, if not almost there. She's grabbing his face now, leaning her forehead against his. "God Peter please…" she breathes, and he's quick, shifting them again, his hand going back between them, but she shakes her head against him. "You," she exhales, her voice low, raspy. "I want you."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs the helm of her dress, pulling it up over her head, discarding it on the floor. He has to focus his attention on her holster, then, trying to unfasten it as swiftly as possible, but his brain is not at its most efficient, and he's not exactly sure _how_ that works. Soon, she's shoving his hands away, and he watches as her fingers dexterously tug, unwrap and pull, until she's unceremoniously throwing holster and gun to the side. Giving her a pointed look meant to prove he's not completely inept, he reaches behind her, then, expertly unclasping her bra with _one_ hand.

She actually purses her lips and rolls her eyes with a small shake of her head as she gets rid of that, too, a look he's often received from her. Intent on making it disappear, he bends down, pressing his palms upon her lower back to pin her to him and make her arch. His tongue gets to work, circling her nipple, before sucking it between his lips, just hard enough. Judging by the way the curve of her body increases, followed by another throaty moan, he's quite positive her brief annoyance is gone, both her hands instinctively back in his hair.

But already, Olivia is using that grip to try and get him to release her breast. "Peter…" she pleads, that thumping pressure swelling, having sunk deeper in the hot mist.

Once again, he obliges, his face coming back to her level as she straightens up. Threading his fingers through her hair, he gently pulls her face to his, pressing a kiss to her cheek. The gesture is oddly tender in such a moment, considering she's fighting the urge to tear the rest of his clothes off him. She might have rolled her eyes again, if he hadn't flipped their position over, then, until she's lying beneath him, and they quickly get rid of what's left of their clothes.

When he rolls back over her, positioning himself between her thighs, she slips an arm under his, her hand grabbing his shoulder, while the other sinks in his hair to pull him down to her, initiating a long, languid kiss meant to make the romantic boy in him blush. She locks her legs around his hips to try and bring the rest of him down; he's attempting to preserve some distance between their bare bodies, and she's not making it easy on him, pulling, pressing, undulating. Since he's supporting most of his weight on his forearms, she feels the tension in the shuddering muscles of his back.

"Olivia," he manages to utter against her mouth. "I don't have any-"

"It's fine," she hushes him. "It's okay. We're good."

Peter doesn't need to know more. His muscles relax, all the while tensing up in different ways, fully lowering himself and significantly increasing the contact between their humming skins. As he cups one of her breasts with a massaging hand, his mouth goes back to her throat. He nibbles at the reddened mark he left earlier, creating a succession of shivers that run beneath her skin. With her head thrown back, he swears he feels her pounding heartbeat as the blood pulses through her tensed neck, every inch of her covered in goosebumps.

He begins tracing a wet path down to her second breast, releasing the first one, his hand disappearing between them, back between her legs. He's more daring this time, curling his fingers inside of her as he sucks at her taut nipple, followed by a few quick flicks of his tongue, soon entrapping it in his warm mouth again. She arches up against him, her grip on him tightening as she clenches around his fingers, hot, slick and ready.

"Peter please," the words rush out of her, pulling at him, shaking against him, and he knows she's more than ready, on the verge of breaking.

He slithers back up, his fingers leaving her warmth, moving to grab the underside of her thigh. He rests his forehead against hers, not making another move for a few moments, slowing things down to give her the opportunity to breathe. She shifts and repositions herself around him, both her arms slipping under his to grab at his shoulder blades, until he feels her nod against him.

As he begins to enter her, he does it slowly, mindful of her body, the bite of her fingers sinking into his tensed muscles letting him know when she needs time to adjust. Soon, he's passed the initial tightness, and his entire being seems to be bathing in warmth. Her breath, too, is scorching hot against his skin as she pants, their faces still pressed together. The sting of her nails on his back begins to fade as she relaxes, feeling the heaving rise and fall of her chest beneath his.

He raises his head to look at her. Her eyes remain tightly closed, her lips parted, her skin flushed, almost vibrant in the flickering light of the fire, so close to reaching that peak. She's never looked more beautiful, and in that moment, he only wants to make sure he does this one thing right. He lets go of her thigh, then, gently grabbing the top of her knee instead.

"Straighten up your legs," he tells her softly. His voice, just like the rest of him, is wondrously warm; pressed together as they are, it reverberates through her.

She's nothing but raw nerves, now, barely able to breathe. She doesn't question him, too far gone to be able to think about anything but the feel of him and her need for release. She relaxes her legs, letting him unwrap one of them until it's on the floor between his, instinctively doing the same with the other. He shifts over her, then, supporting his weight on both his arms again as he moves his whole body upward, aligning their pelvic bones, and she gasps at the sudden added pressure upon the most aching part of her.

This time, he doesn't give her the opportunity to adjust to the sensation, apparently more intent on accentuating it. He begins to move again, creating a slow rolling motion with his hips, pushing _against_ her more than into her, and each of these rolls results in an increasing friction. She's completely helpless, unable to do anything but cling to him, merely reacting to his movements, bending her legs between his, causing him to push harder against her as she digs her toes into his calves.

With each of his slow rolling thrusts, the heat gathers exponentially where his body meets hers, creating a blaze that roars within her; it expands and _deepens, _soon drawing long, guttural notes out of her. Before long, the fire is morphing into a flood of pleasure so intense and powerful, she has no other choice but to shatter from it, over and over again, as Peter keeps on swaying upon her. It overtakes her entire body and soul, her mind going absolutely blank as it spreads in every single one of her cells, infusing them with warmth.

Her descent back to earth is slow; it takes her mind a while to truly reconnect with reality. She cannot remember ever being this aware of her own body, every inch of her tingling. She feels everything, from that ridiculously fluffy carpet beneath her, to Peter's fingers, now on her face.

He's still deep inside of her, and she definitely feels that, too. He's lowered himself again, her legs tangled around his, her arms limp over his back, sweaty skin upon sweaty skin. When she finally opens her eyes, he's right there, above her, looking at her with slight concern.

"You okay?" he asks, and his voice is soft, caring. His fingers are moving, now, the back of his nails brushing her flushed skin, just like they had, Over There.

Above everything else, it is that small, gentle touch that causes her to break again.

She doesn't dissolve into tears, doesn't break into sobs, although a couple of salty drops do roll down her temples as her face constricts. Some breakdowns aren't physical at all, and not all of them are destructive.

Sometimes, a broken limb needs to be broken again, in order for it to heal.

Peter's concern grows, obvious in his eyes and in that deepening crease. Olivia wishes she could explain this feeling to him, but there is no point in even trying, not fully understanding it herself. She doesn't want him to worry, though, moving one of her arms to bring a hand to his face, before weaving her fingers through his hair.

"I'm fine," she whispers, and she means it this time.

He doesn't insist, choosing to believe her. Soon, he's leaning down, nuzzling her face, kissing away the few tears that have escaped her eyes as her arms and legs move. Resting his nose upon her cheekbone, eyes closed, he feels the way she's wrapping her entire body around him, holding him to her.

Until now, he has made it a point to focus solely on her and her pleasure, but it's becoming incredibly difficult to ignore the sensations she's giving him, his heart pounding in his chest. He's still buried inside of her, and even still as they are at the moment, the feel of her is enough to make his whole body quiver, hard.

Something in him is refusing to yield, though, to let himself go, all of his muscles tensing. Because it has dawned on him, how familiar and at ease he is with her, physically. He's _too _at ease, his knowledge of her body inconsistent with the sloppy clumsiness that usually greets first time lovers.

How is he supposed to fully make amends, when even now, he wills himself to forget, yet remembers everything?

Without a word, without a look, Olivia seems to sense his conflict, and just as quietly, she understands it, understands him. Both her hands are roaming, now, moving over his back, tracing patterns that are too deliberate to merely be soothing.

Yet, her touch is soft, loving.

She's shifting beneath him, then, moving her hips; when her hot core tightens around him at the clench of her muscles, he's helpless, his own hips rolling into hers, letting out a strangled moan, before stilling again, shaking noticeably, now.

"Peter…" she sighs his name, her breath once again warm against the skin of is his face, his nose still pressed to her cheekbone.

Her fingers travel to the back of his head, sinking into his hair. She pulls gently, until he raises his head to look at her. The sight of her eyes, with their infinite depth full of shadows and love, is enough to quiet some of his woes.

"Move with me…" Olivia whispers.

_With me..._

In the end, those two little words are all it takes for him to give in to her; they always are.

Peter chooses to chase all unwanted thoughts from his mind for the time being, focusing on the feel of her instead, on the feel of them, on how different this is despite the similarities, focusing most of all on that aching intimacy. He does move, then, resting his forehead upon hers, finally letting his needs take over, retreating almost fully, only to push himself more deeply into her a moment later, and she begins to move with him.

The feel of her _is_ too much, all-consuming, forcing his eyes shut again, but that's alright. She's brought her second hand to his face, pulling him down to kiss him as their bodies become that stormy sea they're lost into. They swell and crash like waves, carried away by the winds of their desire and love.

After the way she had so completely shattered beneath him a short while ago, and given how it seems to have drained most of her remaining energy, Olivia doesn't expect much more from their embrace. She's perfectly content, letting that low, low warmth he's still creating in her carry her forth until he can find his own release.

He never once takes his face away from hers, fingers twisted in her hair, and she meets each of his thrusts, breathing the same air, her hands wandering over his back, softly raking her nails upon his clammy skin, inducing shivers upon shivers.

As they move together, though, his pace progressively quickening now that his body is taking over his burdened mind, she feels the unmistakable return of that growing pressure.

Somehow, it cannot be more different from the crushing pleasure she'd experienced earlier when her body found its long needed release. The pleasure she feels now has less to do with her, and everything to do with him, with them, with how aware she is of the way they're entangled in one another, bodies and souls.

There's an added momentum to their rocking bodies, now, as she pursues this sensation and lets this unexpected warmth take over. Her impending bliss is so tightly linked with his, it's as if she's developed the ability to feel what he feels; given her pre-existing set of abilities and that bond they've always seemed to share, it wouldn't be such a stretch.

With one of her legs firmly locked against his hip, the other presses upon the back of his thigh, her toes once more digging into his calf, pushing him harder into her with each thrust. She's brought both her hands back to his face, clinging to him, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. When he begins to say her name over and over again, in supplication and love, she crosses the point of no return with him, the feel of him coming against her, within her, enough to unravel her completely.

They remain still for a suspended moment, in the aftermath, sluggish seconds turning into lazy minutes, mingled limbs and breaths.

Eventually, Peter moves, untangling himself from her, enough so that he's not crushing her anymore. He still ends up lying on her for the most part, just as reluctant to move his face away from hers. Olivia doesn't mind; there is something wonderfully comforting in the weight of him, tethering her firmly to the earth.

The next time he moves, it is to gently bump her nose with his, before he begins pressing soft, tender kisses upon her face, the way he had earlier tonight in that elevator. Olivia smiles, keeping her eyes closed.

_Beneath every cynic, there is a frustrated romantic._

She uses her fingers still buried in his damp hair to respond to his caress with her own, filled with nothing but deep affection for this sweet, sarcastic man. Because he's all hers, baggage and all.

All hers, all hers, all hers…

He keeps his kisses light and chaste as he moves further down, until his face is pressed to the side of her neck. He nestles himself there, lulled by the feel of her fingers, still drawing soothing circles in his hair.

Within moments, Peter is sound asleep, his breathing deep and slow against her skin. Absolved.

Despite her own exhaustion, Olivia doesn't join him in his slumber, not right away, simply relishing in the feel of him, unable to tell where her body ends and his begins. There is something beautiful in such quantum entanglement.

When her gaze is eventually drawn to that fake fireplace, a few feet away from where they lie, her eyes get lost in the flames. She's appeased by their gentle dance and soft crackling sounds, melding with the pitter-patter of the rain, and with Peter's long and profound exhales in the crook of her neck.

With the warmth of his breath fueling the fire in her heart, Olivia falls asleep, the shivers in her bones gone at last.

* * *

**FIN (oops not anymore xD)**

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**(A/N:** _So, I've been "joking around" on my tumblr, saying this is my "goodbye fic", that once I finish some of the WIPs I still want to finish, I probably won't write for Fringe anymore...Realistically, I can't be a 100% sure I won't write anything for this paring again after I'm done with my WIPs (unless I suddenly lose part of my soul), but realistically, the show has also been over for 2 years, and I haven't exactly produced much since then._

_No matter what, I still treated this baby of mine as a "last fic" of sort, an homage to P/O if you may, an homage to their beautiful love, and to what this beautiful love brought to me over these past 4 years. It not only gave me the motivation to learn to write (a lot) better in a language that isn't my own, it made me a better writer in general. It also gave me a place in the fantastic community that is the Fringe fandom. You guys were always so generous and loving toward me and my stories, you have spoiled me for life_.)

I don't know if it showed, but I honestly poured everything I had in this story. Hearing from you and what you thought of the last part would mean so much to me, so don't hesitate to leave a review *smooches*

**A/N (3 weeks later)**: I actually wrote more of this story. Because whenever I say I'm done writing things, my muse laughs at me then makes me cry. Two more parts, if not 3 hahahaha!


	7. VII

**A/N:** Apparently, I am completely hopeless and cannot stop writing about P/O. As if this fic wasn't already big enough, I made it even bigger. Right now, I'm guessing 9 parts, since I have part 8 and half of 9 already written, but who knows. I most definitely don't at this point.

I want to thank you all so much for your reviews on the previous part, you guys are the sweetest :') So here. Have more smut. And fluff. And a bit of angst too because…well, this is my fic.

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**SHIVERED BONES**

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**VII.**

* * *

Peter wakes up confused.

His sleep had been deeper than it had in weeks, and trying to regain consciousness from it feels like moving through fog. Despite his disorientation, he knows something isn't right long before his brain fully reconnects with his surroundings.

Olivia takes another sharp breath against him, the sound loud, panicked. As he feels her muscles twitch where their bodies touch, it all comes back to him, where they are, and what must be happening. She's having a nightmare, a particularly unpleasant one at that, for it to be physically disturbing her sleep.

Peter moves away, just enough to look at her, barely feeling the stiffness that has settled in his muscles. Her face is constricted, her head jerking, each of her following intakes of breath short, distressed. Instinctively, he wants to hold her to him, to comfort her and warm her up, aware that she's shaking again.

He moves off her instead, pushing himself up on his forearm, hovering over her, the only contact between them being through his hand, already back on her face.

"Olivia," he calls her out, his voice soft, just loud enough to wake her up.

As he hoped, she breaks free from her nightmare, her eyes suddenly wide opened. He recognizes the panic that swirls in them, similar to the one he'd witnessed only hours ago, back in that elevator. With his hand still on her cheek, he leans down, bringing his face closer to hers, their eyes locked.

"It's alright," he whispers, his thumb moving upon her cheek, soothing. "You were dreaming."

Already, her panic is fading, only to be replaced by a familiar pain as she understands what happened, soon closing her eyes again. She's the one reaching for his face, then, pulling at him, and he doesn't need more. He finally lowers himself, gently pushing a knee between her legs, leaning his forehead against hers and letting his warmth envelop her.

"Peter…"

His name escapes her lips in a defeated sigh as she lets go of his face to slip her arms under his, clinging to him, their legs now entangled, trying to bring him closer. Pressed together as they are, he feels the strength of her tremors, aware to some degree that he's shaking, too, as if his body is only now realizing how cold they've become, lying on the ground for a few hours without any kind of cover.

Her exhales remain too shallow against his lips, although he knows her shortness of breath isn't caused by panic anymore. He raises his head to look at her, meeting her eyes again, and sure enough, the pain is still there. She looks so tired, almost numbed, powerless against her own mind refusing to let her rest.

When Peter lowers his face again to kiss her cheek, his lips lingering on her skin, Olivia has to close her eyes, tightening her hold on him, as if the feel of him could rid her of her shadows. She'd thought he might, for a while, so comforted by his presence and loving touch.

She was just abruptly reminded that these things don't work that way, and she only has herself to blame for this lapse in judgment. She's seen too much, knows too much, to allow herself that kind of wishful thinking.

She should have expected something like this to happen, for her mind to trick her, to put her back in the Room in her sleep, the way it always does these days. No matter how appeased she'd felt upon drifting off, considering the way her psyche had snapped in that elevator, she was bound to experience some kind of repercussions, the unavoidable ripples of yet another mental breakdown.

She feels numb, now, the way she's felt so often these past couple of months. This numbness is different, though. It isn't rooted in coldness anymore, coming from the hurt now growing inside of her, from the suffocating realization that no matter what happened tonight, or how safe she feels with him, she isn't any less broken because of it.

The feel of him _does _help, though, the knowledge that he's here with her, against her. She's given him another proof of how damaged she is, yet he hasn't gone anywhere, holding on to her instead, attempting to soothe her without words, his breath slow and comforting upon her face.

When he begins to move again, pushing himself off her, she's reluctant to let him go. She releases her grip on him anyway, still feeling too numb to do much else, until he grabs her hands.

"C'mon," he says softly, helping her to her feet. "Let's find a bed."

Now that she's standing, she's more aware of how stiff and achy her body has become in the past few hours. She's definitely cold, too, every inch of her skin erupting in goosebumps as he leads them to one of the many doors through the semi-darkness. She follows him quietly, also aware of the stirring soreness in muscles she'd forgotten she even possessed.

She doesn't mind that ache, though, remembering what caused it, her head filling with images that are somehow equally sharp and blurry, phantom sensations rushing through her blood, making the numbness recede.

Before long, they've found a bed indeed, and they snuggle up under the thick comforter, Olivia's turn to mostly rest on him. Slowly, the warmth begins to gather up, their shared body heat pooling between linen and skin. With her nose pressed to his neck, her lungs filled with his scent, and with the feel of his heart beating beneath her palm, she finally begins to relax again.

One of his arms circles her, fingers on her lower back, his other hand slowly rubbing the arm that rests on his chest. Even when her tremors eventually subside, the goosebumps remain on her skin. Before long, his rubbing hand is creating another kind of shivers, until Peter becomes aware of it and stills his movements.

She doesn't want him to stop, though.

She's not interested in going back to sleep, anything but eager to give her mind another opportunity to bring her down when she cannot defend herself. She's more interested in the feel of him, her body fully awake, now, the numbness gone. She's as entranced by their proximity as she is by the memories of how good they'd felt, together, and how nothing prevents her from seeking that feeling again.

Peter is not encouraging anything, but he's a bit _too_ tense; he's as affected as her by their closeness, a realization that causes a surge of warmth to flow through her entire body, the sensation soon morphing into shudders. She knows he felt them, his breathing hitching upon the top of her head, his heartbeat quickening beneath her palm.

She shifts slightly, turning her head to press her lips to his neck, mouth opened. As she lets her tongue rest lazily upon his salty skin, it's his turn to shudder. Her hand is on the move, then, making its way down between his legs, not in the least surprised when she finds him half-hard already. He swells in her hand as she wraps her fingers around him, aware of how cold they must feel upon his heat. He doesn't seem to mind, her mouth still pressed to his throat, tracing patterns on his skin as she strokes him, her grip firm, her pace slow.

His hands are moving, too; the one that had been resting on her lower back has come further down, now grabbing the firm muscles of her buttocks to pin her to his hip, one of her legs still untangled between his. His other hand is up to her head, his fingers deep in her hair, twisting and tugging as she twists and tugs, and once again, she feels the vibration of his groans before they pierce the silence. He's fully hard in her hand, now, hot and throbbing, causing her insides to quiver and clench in need.

Olivia is swift, although she keeps everything slow, slithering and shifting until she's on top of him, her legs resting on each side of him, her face hovering inches from his. She enjoys watching him as she rolls upon him, teasing, pressing, equally aroused by the feel of him as she is by the look on his face and his strangled groans. He's holding on to her hips, now, and from the way his grip continuously changes, tightening then loosening, he seems unsure if he wants her to continue.

After one last roll of her hips, she finally positions herself, bringing her face down to his. She nibbles at his bottom lip, soon replacing her teeth with her tongue, demanding entrance. He grants it to her at once, kissing her back with rousing longing, one of his hands having sprung from her hips to sink into her hair, keeping her close. She swallows his next moan and most of him as she lowers herself at last, his hand already back down to aid her movements.

She has to let go of his mouth as she adjusts herself, trying to breathe through the sensation, both her forearms on his chest, resting her forehead upon his lips. All ten of his fingers are traveling up and down her back, and even this light touch is electric. The feel of him is overwhelming, blissfully so, and she longs to be holding on to every inch of him.

The covers fall away, exposing her arching body to the night as she straightens up, pushing herself off his chest until she's straddling him, unable not to roll her hips as she does so, drawing similar noises from them both. Already, he's brought his hands to her breasts, kneading her flesh, his warm palms pressing upon her taut nipples. She throws her head back in a silent gasp, rolling her hips again, unable to breathe as the heat rushes through her, once more gathering deep within, pulsing low.

When she leans forward again, panting slightly, both her hands grab his arms. "Come up here," she rasps.

Peter does as she asks, managing to sit up after a few shifts of their legs and hips, until he's at her level. She wraps herself tightly around him, feeling the strong hold of his arms encircling her as he presses his mouth high on her collarbone, near the base of her throat. From the tingly feel of it, he's on his way to giving her another hickey, his lips only relinquishing her skin when she begins to move against him, into him.

And she clings to him as she sets a deliberate pace, driven by the humming heat of his breath, first against her neck, then against her parted lips as he brings his face back to hers. With one arm around her waist, his other hand once again entangled in her hair, he languidly traces the underside of her jaw with scorching lips and tongue as she sways, sways, sways…

A few times, he halts their movements, the constricted look on his face letting her know he's only trying to hold on longer, for her. And so she remains still, using these instants to kiss him, deep, and long, her fingers moving through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp, wishing she could tell him not to worry so much about her, that this, this already feels better than anything.

Because there is no more worry in her mind as she merges with him, all of her shadows having dissolved under the brightness that fills her head. And she doesn't care if her relief is fleeting, if she's a fool for letting herself think that she's alright, more than alright. She's being set ablaze by the strength of these sensations he ignites in her, overtaking her body as they move together, their souls becoming indistinguishable from one another.

She doesn't _care_, because she deserved it.

She deserves this, deserves him, deserves every single second of bliss that eventually pours through her.

When they find themselves back upon the mattress and under the covers, spent, she rests on his chest, breathless, his hold on her making it clear he doesn't want her to move, and she gladly complies. For a while, his fingers lazily move upon her clammy skin as their breathing slows, until this caress stops, and she knows he has succumbed to sleep again. She listens as his heartbeat goes back to its steady, resting tempo, soothed by the sound.

Olivia doesn't sleep, too comfortable to take that risk, only dozing off a couple of times as the light progressively changes in the room –his, she guesses after a while. The dark, bluish light of early dawn gradually turns into sunlight, although it remains dim and grey, announcing another rainy day. There could be a hurricane outside for all she cared.

At some point, she has no other choice but to start moving upon him, though. She's been trying to ignore some specific bodily needs for a while, but her discomfort is getting too pronounced, now, taking over the sated satisfaction she's been basking into.

As soon as she slides off him to rest at his side instead, Peter stirs, instinctively tightening his hold to try and keep her close.

He squints his eyes open, looking adorably sleepy and confused. "What time's it…" he mumbles, scooching closer to her, purposefully pinning their bodies back together.

She shakes her head. "No idea. Still early."

His eyes are already closed, the tip of his nose pressed against hers. "Definitely too early for me," he breathes out, and it sounds like it won't be long before he's asleep again.

She affectionately brushes their noses together, before going back to her attempts at extracting herself from his embrace. He groans his discontentment.

"I really need to pee," she whispers, more amused than embarrassed.

He reopens one eye, as if gauging the validity of her excuse. "Fine," he concedes, finally releasing her, before grunting again. "Great, now _I_ need to pee."

"I'll use the bathroom next to my room," she says with a chuckle, sitting up, but he makes a disapproving noise.

"Nonsense, you use mine, I'll use the other one."

He's sat up, too, and he's never been more endearing, with his bed-hair, trying to look determined despite the fact that he's still half-asleep. She has no other choice but to cup his stubbly cheek, pressing a soft, tender kiss to his lips.

"Fine," she says, letting him have this one moment of chivalry.

She's on her feet, then, feeling his stare on her as she walks to the door, well aware that she's naked –and sore, so very sore, and not caring about either.

She thought she would go back to bed after using the bathroom, not necessarily to let him go back to sleep, but as she washes her hands and gets a look at herself in a mirror for the first time in hours, she cringes a little.

Her hair aside, which is a disaster at this point, having dried off from rain and sweat, all tangled up from various activities, the remaining traces of the makeup she applied in what feels like another lifetime are the worst of it; there are faint mascara smudges all the way down her _chin_.

Despite it all, she still manages to look startlingly different, compared to yesterday, her face permanently flushed, it seems, her eyes wide and bright. She looks as alive as she feels.

Alive or not, she's got some pride, and in all honesty, she feels rather sticky, which is why she hops in the shower. She didn't intend on staying long, only wanting to wash off. Unsurprisingly, though, she soon finds herself entrapped in the marvelous feeling of hot water running down her body, her sore muscles particularly appreciative of it.

She becomes aware of Peter's presence in the room moments before he knocks gently on the glass door. Apparently, he did so more to announce himself than to ask permission, as a few seconds later, he's stepped inside the small stall, just as she begins to shampoo her hair.

She smirks at him, ignoring the way her heart is already beating faster at his proximity. "I figured you'd be going back to sleep," she says, her voice deliberately casual, if not a bit cheeky. She's missed being able to tease him. "Isn't it too early for you to be up and about?"

He's joined her under the spray, wrapping her in his arms. "I was missing you," he replies simply, and as he tightens his hold, it becomes obvious that it definitely isn't too early for some parts of him to be _up_.

"Indeed," she says, her smile widening. "But just so you know, I'm not a big fan of shower sex."

He chuckles. "That was the _farthest_ thing on my mind," he says, his lie blatant against her hip. "Although I'm very curious to know what you have against shower sex."

He's moved his hands up to her hair, shoving hers away to replace her in rinsing the shampoo off. He takes his time, massaging her scalp, and his skilled fingers upon her skull feel as wonderful as the rest of him does against her, both her hands having fallen upon his chest. She forces herself not to close her eyes and let herself be carried by his touch.

"It's just...very unpractical," she finally answers, still trying to keep her voice casual, in a weak attempt to hide how much he's affecting her. "And let's be honest, water? Not exactly the best lubricant."

He chuckles again, his eyes crinkling affectionately. "You say the sweetest things."

She makes a face. "This can't possibly shock you. I'm not exactly known for being sweet."

He has let go of her hair, encircling her in his arms again to pin her more fully to him, his eyes darkening. His smile changes, too, becoming…hungrier. "I'm definitely not shocked that you would be so practical about this, no," he says, his voice lower, too. He leans down, then, bringing his lips close to her ear. "I'm pretty sure I can find some parts of you that will taste sweet, though."

Olivia bites down on her lip at this double entender. His hands are moving again, shamelessly cupping her buttocks to press her more firmly into him, and the hot feel of him is all kind of distracting.

"Is that a dare?" she asks him, then, a bit breathlessly, meeting his eyes again with a raised eyebrow. He merely smiles back with his own cryptic little smirk.

She really doesn't think much about shower sex, thanks to a couple of dreadful attempts with past lovers, but she's not against _everything_ that can be done in there either. She's quite certain that, with the right preparations, Peter would even make her change her mind about the whole thing; they both love a good challenge.

If anything else, the intimacy of it is more than pleasant at the moment.

As if to prove it, she's grabbed the soap bottle, pouring a good amount of it in her hand, soon lathering him with it. Her fingers travel over toned muscles and softer flesh, tracing the apex and curve of his ribs, inducing shivers beneath his skin. She loves the feel of it, the feel of him reacting to her, loves knowing that his body is as hopeless under her touch as she is under his.

Peter brings a hand to her face, tilting it upward so she will meet his gaze again, and as he leans down to kiss her, sensually sucking her bottom lip between his, he makes it clear he couldn't care less about hygiene right about now. She slips an arm around his neck to pull him down and closer, always closer, deepening the kiss as her other hand keeps on moving upon his soapy chest, not exactly intent on washing him either.

That becomes more than obvious to him as well when her fingers find their way back down between their bodies, soon grabbing the length of him. Moments later, he's pushing them forward, until she's firmly pinned to the wall, trapped between warmth and cold tiles.

With both his hands entangled in her hair, he responds to her stroking fingers with fervent kisses that are nothing short of breathtaking. She knows just how affected he is by her incessant caress when he becomes unable to kiss her, letting go of her mouth to rest his forehead against hers.

"Uh, what happened to 'no sex in the shower'?" he manages to ask, his voice husky, his eyes tightly shut.

"Well, this isn't exactly about me, is it?" She replies, keeping her own voice purposefully low and tantalizing as her thumb draws circles over his tip, causing him to shudder and moan.

He leans more fully into her, thrusting into her touch. He splays one of his arms over the wall, the other one slipping around her waist, clinging to her and croaking her name directly into her ear as she resumes her movements, his nose buried into her wet hair.

Most of the water is falling on him, now rinsing him off as it flows down, but she doesn't care, kept warm by his quivering body, not to mention that heat swelling underneath her skin with every passing second and every sound he makes, entranced by the pleasure she's giving him, not merely teasing anymore, well intent on seeing this through.

Lost in this misty daze, she's almost forgotten that he has a say in this, and finds herself quite surprised when he suddenly moves. Pushing himself off her, his hand goes down so that she will release him. Within moments, he's turned the water off and left the stall, taking her with him.

He grabs her face with the same frenzy, his lips nothing short of crashing upon hers, entrapping her in a mind-numbing kiss. His hands are down, then, grasping and pulling upward until he's picking her up; she instinctively clings to him as he walks the short distance back to his bed, dripping water as they go.

He puts her down on the mattress, right on the edge of it, not giving her a chance to move. Already, he's kneeling between her legs, his hands pressing upon her thighs to keep her there, and she has rarely seen the blue of his eyes so dark. She has very little doubt about what he has in mind for her with that look on his face and in such position, the mere prospect of it flooding her insides with heat.

She honestly doesn't need any foreplay, though, not after the way she successfully worked them both up in that shower, once again craving for the feel of him.

"Come up here with me," she says, breathless, her hands covering his, trying to get him to release her. She's not trying hard.

He lowers his face instead, pressing his lips to her inner thigh. "Uh uh," he refuses, the sound coming from a low place in his throat. It reverberates through her, so close to that aching part of her that it sends a premature jolt of pleasure up her spine, like he probably intended.

His hands _do _move, then, pressing, massaging, grabbing. By the time he's bringing her legs over his shoulders, his hands slipping under her as his breath slowly scorches the inside of her thigh, she's officially given up the fight, having fallen back upon the mattress, her chest heaving in anticipation.

She should feel cold, still layered with droplets of water, hundreds of them, if not thousands, her body exposed to the chilly air. But as he sucks at these droplets covering her sensitive skin, she feels feverish instead, already burning from the inside out.

And even as the first of many, many moans to come echoes in the room, her flushing body writhing at the feel of his mouth now sucking at much more than droplets, she cannot quite understand how the tables have turned so drastically in such a short time. She really should have expected it, though.

She had dared him, after all.

…

When Olivia wakes up, her first semi-coherent thought is that it must be much later in the day.

The light in the room has changed from grey to bright, irrefutable proof that she's been out for a while, and that this day turned out to be not so rainy, after all. The second thing she notices is the smell.

Something delicious is being cooked nearby, and suddenly, she's _ravenous_.

When she stretches upon the bed, quickly realizing that she's alone under the covers, it becomes clear who's responsible for that wondrous smell –the same man who is responsible for everything wondrous she's feeling at the moment. She honestly cannot remember the last time she had slept this well, actually _slept_ for several hours, a dreamless, restful slumber devoid of any nightmare.

She has to give it to him, he is one dedicated, skillful man.

After they'd abruptly put a halt to their showering, Peter had apparently taken it upon himself to find most, if not all, of her erogenous zones. He had been in no hurry, stimulating as many of them as he could, in turn or several at once, until he'd managed to make her come no less than three times (maybe four...she hadn't been exactly coherent by then), at which point she had fallen into an orgasm-induced coma.

Even now, hours later, she feels blissfully boneless, her every muscle relaxed. The last time she'd felt something remotely similar, she'd been pumped with psychedelics, and even that sensation didn't really come close to the high she's currently experiencing.

She feels like she's taken a very unique kind of drug, already in need of more; hopefully, the sight of him will be enough to appease that craving for now.

She probably would have stayed in bed a little while longer if her stomach hadn't growled obnoxiously, reminding her that she's starving, not to mention ridiculously thirsty. When she finally makes to leave the bed, she spots the full glass of water Peter has placed on the nightstand for her, grinning foolishly at the note he's put next to it. All it says is '_Drink up'_, but, always the romantic, he's replaced the _i_'s dot with a little heart.

After another mandatory trip to the bathroom to clean up and try to do something with her hair, beyond disastrous at this point, she grabs a shirt from his traveling bag. She puts it on, ignoring the fact that she was unable to stop herself from briefly bringing it to her face first, breathing in his scent, succeeding in making herself feel even mellower. She doesn't bother putting anything else on, aware that the shirt isn't likely to stay on for very long anyway, finally leaving the room to look for him.

Compared to the size of this floor, the kitchen isn't exceedingly big, Walter having chosen to go for warm and cozy instead. Olivia thinks it even has a homey feel to it, although she guesses Peter's presence at the stove is solely responsible for that, offering her his profile.

The first thing she notices is that he's dressed. Not partially dressed like her, but _fully_ dressed, wearing jeans and a dark sweater of thin wool. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows in a way that more than pleasantly accentuates his lean frame.

Olivia wonders how it is possible for him to look even more irresistible than he's ever been until this point, but it probably has something to do with her second realization: the sight of him is not going to be enough at all.

She's always been drawn to him, but that particular feeling has become so much more intense since yesterday, it's both frightening and exhilarating. It's as if part of her now resides under his skin, as he does under hers, and these pieces yearn to be reunited.

Olivia remains in the doorway, trying to get a grip on herself and act like the grown woman that she is; she guesses it's too late for that, considering she's currently wearing nothing but his shirt, already aching for his touch.

Eventually, Peter turns his gaze from his sizzling pan to look at her, smiling in such a way that makes her think -not for the first time- that he can read her thoughts.

"Hey," he says in that low voice of his –which simply happens to be his regular voice, and _god_ staying away is hard.

"You got dressed," Olivia responds in way of greeting, somehow managing to sound disapproving.

"I did," he says, turning his eyes back down to whatever he's cooking. "I figured not everybody in the building would enjoy the sight of my naked body as much as you do. And truthfully, I think they've seen enough of the Bishop's family jewels after Walter's latest LSD trip." He gives her a better look-over, then. "I _definitely_ approve of your choice of outfit, though."

That's an understatement.

She looks scrumptious in his shirt, barely covering anything at all below her hips. Having –naturally, left the top button undone, most of her collarbone is exposed, revealing a few of the hickeys he's not exactly sorry he scattered across her skin. With her hair up in an extremely messy bun, she somehow manages to look _adorably _sexy.

Above all, she looks relaxed and refreshed, gorgeously alive. Considering they haven't done anything in the past fifteen hours but make love and occasionally sleep, he gladly takes credit for the warm colors in her cheeks.

Not that she's not making him feel just as vibrant.

"You went out?" she asks as she finally moves from the doorway, taking a seat at the island, behind where he stands at the stove.

"Does going down to the cafeteria to steal some of their ingredients count as going out?"

She lets out a small chuckle, answering with her own question: "Is it considered stealing when you're the CEO's legal guardian?"

He looks at her over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. "My thoughts exactly."

The way she's looking at him is very distracting, her chin now resting on her palm, her eyes soft, twinkling. He forces himself to refocus on the food before he lets something burn. He _really_ is hungry; it's the only thing that had managed to get him out of bed, about thirty minutes ago.

The fact that he'd purposefully fought his initial drowsiness just so he could stay awake and watch her sleep for a few hours is a testament to how lovestruck he truly is. He doesn't care. He would have been happy to keep on doing it for a couple more hours, if hunger hadn't driven him out of bed.

She was so out, she didn't even stir when he finally left her side, quite certain by then that she wouldn't have any more nightmares this time around.

Peter grabs one of the glasses he prepared a few minutes ago, turning around to put it in front of her. "Freshly squeezed," he says with a smirk. As far as energy drinks went, orange juice wouldn't have been his first choice, but they were the only fresh fruits he could find in the cafeteria.

She gives him a smirk of her own, before downing half of it in one go. He turns back to his pan, finally getting the grilled cheese sandwiches onto plates.

"What makes those smell so good?" she asks, and she sounds as hungry as he feels, causing his grin to widen.

He has half a mind to tell her that considering they're both quite high on love hormones at the moment, she would probably find the smell of dirty socks appealing –especially if they were his.

"It's the pesto," he answers instead, handing her a plate. She frowns, having clearly never tried that particular combination before. "Trust me, you're gonna like it."

He was right, of course; moments later, she's chewing, soon making a noise that closely resembles some of the sounds he drew out of her only hours ago. "Is there _anything_ you're not good at?" she chuckles between two bites.

He's not eating yet, too busy watching her, aware that he's got a ridiculous smile on his face, and not caring much. "Crossword puzzles," he answers simply.

She makes a face. "I thought you were a genius."

"I _am_ a genius," he replies with extreme cockiness, knowing it would make her smile; she doesn't disappoint, the sight of her smile creating the nicest kind of ache in his chest. "It's not that I can't do them," he explains. "I can do pretty much anything if I set my mind to it. I just have no patience for word games of any kind, and am therefore terrible at them."

"Well, I happen to be very good at crosswords," she says after swallowing another bite. "We'll make a good pair. You can be in charge of cooking from now on, I'll take care of the New York Times."

She says this so naturally, this mention of them as an item, without a hint of hesitation, it makes his heart feel about a thousand times bigger in his chest. As he stares at her, hoping she can see in his eyes how much this means to him, the colors in her cheeks darken, her smile turning a bit shy, and he has never loved her more.

"Sounds like a plan," he eventually says, warmly, finally grabbing his sandwich and (briefly) interrupting his staring, not wanting to make her feel self-conscious.

They eat in silence for a while, the comfortable kind, simply enjoying each other's company without feeling the need to talk, a trait that is inherent to their dynamic. Just like he loved watching her sleep, he wants nothing more than to keep on watching her eat, now. She seems to be genuinely loving her food, a sight he's certain he never witnessed until today.

Olivia rarely eats, and whenever she does, she usually makes it look like a chore she's only agreed to do because, annoyingly enough, her body requires to be fed on occasions in order to survive.

There is something nudging at him as he eats, though, something he's been turning around in his head ever since he found himself back in the elevator on his way down to the cafeteria.

Once in there, no matter how relaxed he felt at the time, he couldn't help remembering everything that had happened the previous night, mainly Olivia's panic, and the revelations she had made about what was done to her on the Other Side.

He'd thought about having to wake her up from her nightmare, about all these little signs that showed how affected she still was by her trauma, aware that he was only seeing the tip of the iceberg.

He had just come to a decision about what to do (or attempt to do) when she had joined him in the kitchen; as he finishes his sandwich, Peter guesses there is no point in pushing off this conversation any longer.

"So," he begins. "What's next?"

She'd been lost in her thoughts, now bringing her eyes and focus back on him. She arches an eyebrow with a faint crooked smile. "We go back in there?" She suggests with a tilt of her head towards the other rooms, beyond the kitchen.

He chuckles, trying not to get too distracted by the way she's now staring at him, well aware that she's serious. So is he. "I was actually thinking a bit further ahead," he says.

She shrugs. "Well, next, we go back to Boston. I have to be at work tomorrow morning."

Peter keeps himself from grimacing, scratching his stubble with a nervous knuckle. No matter how much he does not want to make her feel uncomfortable in any way, he knows what he's about to suggest will probably change her mood drastically. He's determined not to back down, though, not before he's said what needs to be said.

"What about…taking a few days off work?"

Olivia halts her chewing, frowning at him. "Why would I take a few days off work?"

He does his best to keep his face and voice relaxed as he says: "You haven't actually taken any time off since you came back. I thought now was as good a time as any to give yourself a break."

As he expected, her entire body language changes within seconds. She straightens up, her face closing off, dropping the last of her sandwich onto her plate. Her mouth purses as she gives him a disgruntled look. "You sound just like Broyles," she says, in a tone that makes it clear she didn't mean it as a compliment.

There is a heavy pause, then, and Peter almost _feels _the shift in her, hears the pieces coming together in her head, and his insides twist. Olivia has always been too good at this, at connecting information, putting them together.

She's doing it right now.

Understanding flashes across her face, and he watches with growing apprehension as her expression changes, going from slightly annoyed to offended and hurt.

"Wait," she says, her voice already lower. "You've _talked_ to Broyles, haven't you?" Before he can even begin to formulate an answer, she keeps going, half-raising a hand, looking at him as if he had insulted her: "_That's _why you started following me around everywhere I went. Did he ask you to tag along so you could keep an eye on me and give him full reports on how I'm doing on the field?"

Peter knows how much she's going to dislike hearing the truth, but he decides right away not to lie about this. "It wasn't like that," he shakes his head, trying his best to sound soothing, but she's incensed, now, having averted her eyes, her breathing too loud, too shallow, her entire body tense and rigid. "He was worried about you."

Unfortunately, this truly seems to be the last thing she wanted to hear. She's back on her feet in a flash, having jumped off her seat, her eyes shooting daggers as she shoves a hand in front of her. "There is _nothing_ wrong with the way I do my job," she states, firmly.

"I never said-" he tries, but she cuts him off.

"What the _hell _were you expecting, Peter?" she asks, or rather demands, her eyes and nose scrunched up in anger and hurt. "Did you really think I would just take the week off, so that we could play house in here, while you magically 'fixed' me?"

"Olivia, _stop_." His voice is much louder, this time.

He's not mad, far from it, but she's so livid, he has no other choice but to meet her in her intensity for a moment in order to get through to her. It seems to work, enough for her to let her hand fall. She keeps on glaring at him, though, quickly crossing her arms in a defensive posture.

"This has nothing to do with me," he continues, more softly, shaking his head. "I think it would be good for you to take some time off, not because you're doing anything wrong right now, but because you're human, and people do take breaks from their jobs on occasion. You don't even have to include me in any of it," he adds, truthfully. "You could…I don't know, you could use that time to go visit your sister in Chicago, for example."

He had hoped to calm her down with that suggestion, thinking that the prospect of seeing her family might help her see the benefits of taking a break.

Peter certainly did not expect what happens instead.

Her angry flush begins to recede, and he realizes at once that he's unintentionally struck a raw nerve. Within seconds, all colors have gone from her face, replaced by that ghostly pallor he'd hoped never to see again.

Olivia is not looking at him anymore, her eyes now worryingly vacant, all traces of irritation gone, as if they were never there in the first place. Her entire demeanor has become sickeningly familiar, going back to the one she'd displayed so often since her return.

And it's almost sickening, the way this suffocating numbness is always there inside of her, ready to take over at a moment's notice, making him ache for her all over again.

Although he hopes she'll prove him wrong, Peter instinctively understands what this is about.

"Olivia?" He calls out softly, but she doesn't meet his eyes. "Have you talked to Rachel or Ella since you've come back?"

Her eyes remain glassy, staring at a point in front of her.

"No," she eventually answers, her voice as vacant as her gaze.

Peter fights his need to walk around the island and reach out for her, aware that physical contact probably is the last thing she wants or can tolerate right now. But his heart beats painfully fast inside his chest, thumping loudly against his ears. The sight of her with that empty look in her eyes is unbearable, especially compared to the way she looked mere minutes ago.

He wants to kick himself for being the cause of this abrupt change in both her mood and demeanor, for having nudged and pressed where she hurts. Yet, ultimately, he knows this is necessary, unavoidable.

She can't keep on burying it all inside.

Her sister and niece mean the world to her. It's one of the very first things he had learned about Olivia; not about her as the skilled FBI agent, but as the person who hides beneath the armor. His heart squeezes painfully at the thought of her deliberately, or unconsciously, keeping herself from reaching out to them, in fear of what might have happened during her absence.

"They weren't around at all during these eight weeks," Peter eventually says, keeping his voice low and soft. After another few seconds of silence, he cautiously adds: "And…I really don't think _she_ went to see them either."

At the mention of her Alternate, which comes with the inevitable reminder of the weeks he spent with _her_, Olivia's eyes aren't so vacant anymore.

Her face constricts slightly as she meets his eyes, causing his insides to clench. Her lips curl in one of her tight, painful smiles, and she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.

"I can't do this," she finally whispers. "I…" she brings her fingers to her face, pressing them to her lips, before she raises both her hands in front of her, having already averted her eyes again. "I have to go."

And on these words, Olivia retreats, leaving the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N:** Hello, my name is Ambre. One of my favorite hobbies include turning fluffy goo into angst goo. I can't help myself. Ah well.

I might be able to post the next part during the weekend, but who knows with me. I do hope you've enjoyed this one though :) Don't forget the reviews, it's my birthday week! :'D *shameless emotional bribery*


	8. VIII

**A/N:** Here comes another biiiig part, full of P/O goodness (including more smut, yes, how not shocked are you?), and a couple more things I wanted to explore. Yes, this story should now be 10 parts long. I know, I know, but I'm not exactly sorry xD

In any case, thank you for your support and love, enjoy this one!

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**VIII.**

* * *

Peter lets her be.

He knows she's in her room, now, probably getting dressed for good this time. He could give her the easy way out, stay in his own room while she escaped without having to confront him again; it would be easier for him, too.

He's about done being a coward, though, unable to stand the thought of them parting like this.

He stays in the main part of the loft instead, quickly noticing that she's picked up most of the items they'd dropped on the floor the previous night. As he waits for her to come out, he sits at the piano Walter insisted on getting up here. He's not remotely interested in playing, but he has a direct view of the elevator door from the bench, insuring she won't sneak out.

Some old habits die hard, though, and soon, his fingers rest on the keyboard, drawn to it. They always are, whenever he finds himself sitting at a piano, just like they are drawn to Olivia whenever she's within his reach. As he begins to play, the thought of her slipping through his fingers yet again after having her so close makes him feel hollow.

What happened in the kitchen doesn't even qualify as a fight, but he has his own demons, recent and past events in his life making him prone to quickly dwell in doubts and self-contempt.

He keeps the notes soft and unhurried, his hands traveling effortlessly across the piano, not exactly surprised that the melody he's creating sounds a bit too much like a lament, distant memories melding with his returning gloom. Already, his mother has joined him; she always does when he plays.

He sees her so clearly in his mind's eyes, she could as well be sitting at his side, the way she used to when he was a kid and a young teen. She used to love listening to him play, and he used to love the way she looked when he did, the darkness in her eyes receding for a little while.

It never stayed away long enough.

When Peter's neck starts prickling, he knows Olivia has come out of her room, and is now watching him; he doesn't stop right away. His melody changes, though, as he smoothly begins to favor major chords over minors, the notes that fill the air ringing with timid hope. Eventually, he lets the music fade, soon turning around on the bench to look at her.

As he expected, she's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She did attempt to get dressed, now wearing pants, her messy hair freed from its bun. She's still wearing his shirt, though, which he takes as a good sign.

Appeased by her presence alone, quite certain that if she intended to leave, she would be long gone, all of his focus is on her face, and on the way she's looking at him. They remain quiet for another minute, simply holding each other's gaze.

"I'm sorry," she eventually says, softly, with another painful smile and a small shake of her head.

"It's alright," he replies, just as quietly.

She shakes her head again. "No, it's not. It was unfair of me, to get mad at you like that."

He's unwilling to let her take the blame for this, though. "I was out of line," he says. "It's not my place to tell you what you should or shouldn't do."

Olivia purses her lips with a vague tilt of her head. "That's not entirely true, though, is it?" Seeing his confusion, she adds: "I don't approve of Broyles using you to keep me in check, but I get why he did it. He knows I usually listen to you, even if I don't like it. You have this annoying habit of being right about a lot of things. And you're right about this, too."

Peter remains silent, waiting for her to elaborate. She looks…peeved, clearly annoyed by his perspicacity indeed.

"I keep on pretending everything's fine, but it's not," she finally admits, reluctantly. "I know I'm not fine. I know I've come back…damaged."

His throat constricts, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard. "Olivia, you're not-" but she cuts him off again.

"Come on, Peter," she says, her annoyance growing, her brow furrowed. "How much more do you need to see? I'm a mess, and you know it, don't try and make excuses for me."

He realizes then that most of her renewed irritation isn't directed towards him, but towards herself.

"I had every intention of leaving, you know," she continues. "I was _not_ happy about that little chat." Her tone and the look on her face match her words, pinching her lips in a tight, sullen smile. "But then, I remembered we're on the 38th floor, which means that if I want to leave, I have to go back in that box," she swoops a hand toward the elevator, her face once again scrunching up in pained aggravation, deeply offended by her own helplessness. "And the last time I went in there when I was too worked up, I had a fucking _episode_."

Peter is back on his feet, now, slowly walking to her as she continues: "I know I've got issues, but I can't-"

Her hand comes up to her face, pressing it to her nose, before she catches herself doing it and wraps her arms tightly around herself, bringing her gaze back to his, her face constricting.

"I can't stand the thought of you doubting my ability to do my job," she admits with a defeated shrug. "This job…this job is my life, Peter. It's the only thing I had when I-" She closes her eyes, shaking her head as if to clear it. "It's more than that."

She reopens her eyes, looking up at him, now standing in front of her. "I made a promise, Over There," she says, very quietly. "A man died so that I could come home. He had a family, a wife and a son, people who needed him. But he sacrificed himself for me, because I promised him I would do everything in my power to save his world if he saved _me_."

The look on her face is agonizing, her head tilting, her eyes brimming with tears he knows she won't let herself cry, as she asks in a whisper: "How exactly am I supposed to take a vacation, when I know there's this little boy out there who lost his dad because of me?"

This time, Peter doesn't wait for a sign of consent before reaching for her, everything in her body language and in the way she looks at him screaming of the quiet pain she's in. His hand disappears into her hair, and she wraps her arms around him, tightly, clenching his sweater in her hands as she presses her face to his chest, his other arm coming around her to draw soothing circles over her back.

They sway on the spot as he soundlessly tries to absorb some of her pain, his nose buried in her hair, hoping that his touch is enough to convey how deeply he feels for her. He wishes nothing more than for that crushing weight on her shoulders to lessen, so that she could breathe; he would carry it all himself, if he was only given the chance.

Eventually, he pulls away to look at her, bringing his hand back to her face. Her eyes remain too bright and slightly reddened, yet she doesn't cry, stubbornly refusing to give in.

"First of all, you're not damaged," he tells her, and although his voice is soft, he says it firmly, adamantly. "You're…bruised."

She makes a face, as if she has half a mind to tell him what she thinks of his metaphor, but he shakes his head, bringing his second hand up to cup her other cheek, tightening his hold on her.

"_Things_ get damaged, not people," he insists. "People, even very strong minded people who have a tendency to push through their pain? They heal. But for that to happen, you have to stop pretending these bruises aren't there, because all you are doing is press on them, over and over again."

With her gaze firmly locked with his, he knows she's listening. "Second of all, I have never doubted your ability to do your job, Olivia, and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I did. Neither has Broyles. You're…_amazing_ at what you do, he knows that, and so do I. But the responsibilities this job is putting on you should _not_ come at the expense of your wellbeing –I know you don't agree," he stops her before she can interrupt him. "But that doesn't make it any less true. Sometimes, you have to accept the fact that you come first. You can't keep on saving the world and everyone in it if you don't take care of yourself. At the very least, let _me_ take care of you. I'm good at that, remember?"

After a pause, she nods, and her eyes close when he presses his lips to her forehead, one of her hands now holding on to his forearm, the other one still clutching a fistful of his sweater against his ribs.

"You're a good man, Peter," she eventually whispers.

He knows what triggered these words, both of them thinking back to that discussion they had in her hospital room, over a year ago, when she told him he was good at 'that, at taking care of the people he cared about. And again, he aches at the thought of his mother, unable to keep her away.

_Be a better man than your father._

He leans his forehead against Olivia's, still holding her face in his hands, needing to share a little bit of his soul with her, the way she just had with him. "When I met my mom on the Other Side, my biological mom, I told her about my mother from this side, about…how sad she was for so many years, because of me."

Already, Olivia has released his sweater, splaying her hand over his back, her touch soft, comforting. Peter keeps on going, though; he's not sharing this with her hoping to get her sympathy. "She said something to me that day, my mom. She told me…in the end, we have to take responsibility for our own decisions."

He moves his face away from hers, just enough to meet her gaze. "You made a promise, and you should honor that promise. But the choice this man made…the choice was his, Olivia. He chose to _save_ your life. Don't let it become a punishment."

Eventually, she nods in his hands, too overwhelmed to even try to speak.

"I won't bring up time off again," he promises, aware of how important this is to her. "Just…think about it, okay?"

And again, when she nods her answer, he knows she's not simply humoring him. He gently bumps her nose with his, and she closes her eyes, almost tiredly, before dropping her head, pressing her face to the side of his neck. He brings his arms back around her, holding her to him as she sinks into his embrace. They let time pass, content to stay like this for now, breathing each other in, taking comfort as much as giving it.

After some time, she begins to move again, her hands releasing his sweater to slip under the shirt beneath. As always, her fingers are colder than his skin, but he doesn't mind. He certainly doesn't mind the way her palms are pressing upon his back as they move up, replaced by the light feel of her nails as they come back down. It's all it takes for his blood to heat up again, already gathering low. His entire body breaks into shivers as her lips part against his skin, and she merely breathes out, pouring hot air over his pulsing point. Soon, she's grabbing the hem of both shirt and sweater, pulling upward.

He raises his arms to let her pull them over his head, bringing his hands to her cheeks a moment later, tilting her face up and leaning down as her fingers resume their movements over his back. The kiss is soft, unhurried, slowly gaining in intensity. Even though it seems to be lacking the impatience that was present every other time, there is definite longing in their touch, especially hers. Before long, she's brought her hands down between them, undoing his belt and popping his jeans open, unambiguous about what she wants and needs from him, now.

Peter knows she's using this, using him, as a means to push away these shadows that refuse to let her be. He was aware of it during the night, after her nightmare, and he's aware of it now. And just like he had then, he gladly obliges, only wanting to help her find some peace.

Considering what was done to him only weeks ago, how that same act was used to fool him, maybe this should bother him. It doesn't. It doesn't, because _this_ is so different with Olivia. She has no ulterior motive but a sheer longing for closeness that equals his own, seeking relief through their embrace.

He feels it in the way her fingers move upon his skin and disappear into his hair, always more a caress than a grip. He sees it when her face constricts in more than desire, in the slightest of ways. And he hears it in the sigh of his name, as his lips trail her skin.

They're on her bed, now, having discarded of their clothes along the way, once again entangled in one another, cocooned in the warmth of their bodies. And again, he's kissing every inch of her, taking his time, resuming the thorough exploration of her body he began earlier today. At the time, he had sought to exhaust her body and cloud her mind, with pleasure instead of fear for once, overflowing her blood with oxytocin so that the next time she slept, she wouldn't even dream.

This time, he focuses on her skin itself, following freckles and scars, loving the way her milky complexion darkens under his touch, his lips attracting the heat within, drawing it up to the surface.

What he could never tell her is that he _needs_ to do this, to carve the shape and feel of her into his brain, charting every inch of her body, in a desperate attempt to overwrite the map he started with the wrong woman. Consciously, he does his best not to compare, but more often than not, he's not given a choice, especially when the physical similarities are so bluntly obvious.

The differences are there, though, and more than anything else, that is what he's after. The fact alone that she lets him do this, explore, is different; this always was much too intimate for this other _her_ to tolerate. Every time Peter finds a scar he'd never seen before, every time she shivers a little stronger, he takes notes, knowing that eventually, Olivia's map will erase everything else.

While his mouth moves over her upper body, keeping himself up on one arm, his free hand is far from being idle, more purposeful as it focuses lower. It moves, caresses, kneads, the pad of his fingers digging into her thigh, sometimes higher, moving across her twitching stomach, sliding through her warmth, curling inside of her. They never remain in one place too long, seeking to please and wake her body to him -and succeeding, judging by her humming sighs, but he's intent on keeping the fire burning low for now, not yet ready to speed things along.

Olivia tried reciprocating some of the attention at first, but every time her fingers had sneaked between them, he gently grabbed them and chased them away, making it clear this was once again about her. Any other time, she might have fought for her right to touch him. The fact that she gives up so quickly, resting her hands almost loosely upon his back, lets him know that she's still shaken by their most recent conversation, accepting his offer and letting him take care of her.

With his lips on her shoulder, he brings his hand back up, reaching for one of her arms, unwrapping it from around him until it rests at her side, pinning it gently to the mattress. As he begins trailing down the soft skin of her upper arm, his thumb brushes the inside of her elbow. She tenses briefly under and around him, followed by a small tug, as she instinctively tries to free her arm from his grip. He knew this reaction would come; he noticed this morning that this was a part of her she didn't want him to focus on, and he'd complied.

Not this time.

He doesn't let go, moving further down instead, until he's looking at the crook of her elbow. There, scattered over her pale, translucent skin, are small, white scars that follow the sinuous line of the vein beneath. Some of them are more noticeable than others; he even sees the faint remains of a couple of needle tracks, where her skin was crudely scratched.

Using her other hand, now in his hair, she pulls gently, yet firmly, silently asking him not to look at them, not to look at this physical reminder and evidence of what was done to her. Still, Peter doesn't move, a low, fiery rage briefly coiling in his gut as he stares at this travesty of a constellation, born from abuse and pain.

He doesn't let his anger spread, doesn't let it take over. He acknowledges it, then pushes it away, before refocusing solely on her, lowering his face until his lips are pressed to her skin, lingering upon these stars. The tugging stops as she listens to his silent words, as clear to her as hers had been to him a moment ago. He _knows_.

She has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide, not from him.

When he hears and feels her sharp intake of breath, followed by a quivery exhale, he finally lets go, raising his head to look at her. Her fingers have left his hair, the back of her hand now pressed to her mouth, her face turned away, eyes tightly shut. He moves upward, surrounding her with warmth, taking her fingers in his, away from her face, intertwining them. Pressing their joined hands near her head, he leans down, then, kissing that line between her eyes, the one that always appears whenever her face constricts, whenever she yields to whatever screams inside of her.

His nose brushes away the wet trails that have run down her temples, before his lips find hers again, kissing her with slow and aching urgency. As her free hand comes to rest on his face, her nails grazing his stubble, he slips his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, shifting them, and she gasps into his mouth when he enters her, his turn to be surrounded by warmth.

He's loving her, then, and she responds to him with equal yearning, moving with him, her legs entangled in his, just like their hands upon the mattress, squeezing with each of his thrusts. Her hold on his jaw has tightened, too, as if insuring his face won't leave hers, even when they halt their kissing to breathe or adjust their bodies. Already, the way they move together is becoming more intuitive and smooth, dancing a lovers' dance.

Her leg moves over his, until he feels her heel pressing into the back of his thigh, a wordless request he recognizes. Shifting his weight and his hold on her hips, he increases both the momentum and strength of his next thrusts. Her reaction doesn't disappoint, her fingers swiftly leaving his face as she reaches for the firm muscles of his buttocks, pulling him to her, and he watches as her face constricts, mouth agape, gasping his name, before the sound turns into a long moan.

He could have spent an eternity watching her like this, flushed with heat and growing pleasure, but trapped as he is, in her gaze and her warmth, his control is already slipping, and the crook of her neck is calling him home. He buries his face against her skin, forcing himself not to give in to his own brand of ecstasy as it swells within him, focusing on his pace.

He moves almost languidly, but his thrusts are steady and strong, as affected by the warm, tight feel of her as he is by the exquisite sting of her nails, the clasp of her legs, and her breath near his ear. Even through the thumping of his heart, he hears each of the sounds she makes, every pant, gasp and moan passing through him like a hot blade, his own groans muffled into her neck.

Her movements are out of sync for a moment as she shifts, firmly locking her legs around his hips, releasing her holds on him to press both her hands upon his chest. And again, he quickly understands and doesn't oppose resistance, rolling them over, until she's resting upon him. She doesn't sit up this time, keeping their faces close instead, weaving her fingers through his hair as hers cascades around their heads in a golden waterfall. Her breathing is heavy against his lips, their eyes once again locked as she sets a new pace, faster, but not by much.

She only breaks eye contact to kiss him as she rolls harder into him, driven by his helping hands, moving and pushing upon her lower back to increase the pressure between them. Soon, kissing becomes nonessential, her fingers clenching the sheet on each side of his head, pushing herself off his chest to increase her movements, until she's arching over him with another low, resonating moan. He knows she's reaching that place again, that place where nothing else matters but her fast approaching release, taking him along with her.

Given the way her body curves upon him, head thrown back, her chest and throat are now exposed, at his mercy. Grabbing her waist, his back leaves the mattress, pushing himself up and forward, raking his teeth over her pulsing neck, before bending his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. As he sucks, avidly, he feels her nails in the back of his head, one of her hands now clenching his nape.

The added sensation seems to unravel her, the meeting of their hips becoming more and more erratic, bringing her to the verge of breaking; in a craze, Peter rolls them over again, anything but slow now, maintaining the pace she'd set, pushing deeper within her, his massaging palm and fingers replacing his lips and tongue over her breast. With her nails still digging into the back of his neck, her other hand claws at his lower back as she completely gives into it, into him, absolutely unrestrained, her voice a beautiful music, her rippling body his safe haven.

The incredible feel of her, combined with the keen awareness of her rushing pleasure, is enough for him to surrender to that scorching heat that has been gathering within the most intricate parts of him. Caught up in her surging waves, a tongue of electric fire unleashes from his core, until it spreads through his entire body.

All he can do for the following minute –or ten, is rest limply upon her, his face pressed between her heaving breasts, shaking, and fighting for air, his heart galloping madly in his chest. If they keep this up, he might drive himself into a premature heart-attack; he guesses there are worse ways to die.

He's been focusing on the sound of her slowing heartbeat, and on the feel of her fingers in his hair, awaiting the moment when she'll ask him to move his weight off her. It doesn't come.

Instead, he feels her chest twitch under him, in what he recognizes as a silent chuckle, before she lets out a low, pained groan. He raises his head, not an easy feat as the muscles of his neck are still made of pudding.

She meets his gaze, looking as drained as he feels, and just as high. "I couldn't feel half my body," she says in answer to his silent question. "But now that the sensations _are_ coming back, I think it was for the best."

It's his turn to chuckle, before he drops his head again, peppering the soft, soft skin of her breast with kisses, simply because it's right _there,_ and why wouldn't he?

"Think we should call the lobby?" he muses. "Maybe they have a lab that specifies in 'excessive intercourse and its after effects'."

As they both chuckle and snort a bit too much at a comment that wasn't even that funny, he finally forces himself to move, coming up to her level, and working together with cottony hands and legs to bring some covers over their cooling bodies.

They don't really sleep, after that, not entirely awake either, limbs entangled, nose to nose, soft, lazy fingers moving upon skin, a feather-light touch that feels like heaven. Olivia is back to feeling uncharacteristically mellow, her previous bit of anger and ensuing heartache a fading memory.

She hasn't forgotten what happened, but somehow, it feels insignificant at the moment, compared to the feel of Peter's body and warmth, to the momentary peace he makes her feel. They're almost _too_ warm, tangled up under the covers, their skin never having dried off properly from their last bout of love making, trapped as they are in their shared body heat; she doesn't care.

She's had a lifetime worth of feeling cold.

As the minutes pass and the light progressively darkens in the room, she thinks they should probably acknowledge the fact that they will need to drive back to Boston soon. Yet, they don't move. Or not much.

His lips find hers at some point –or maybe she finds his. After that, she loses track of time again, loses track of everything that isn't him and her, as she slowly melts into him. There is something wonderfully soothing in the intimacy of this moment, simply kissing, hands roaming, yet not seeking more for now, discovering each other still.

Their impromptu making-out session isn't completely innocent either, slowly escalating, going from the soft, unhurried brush of lips upon lips, to Olivia eventually being fully pressed into the mattress again. With both her hands pined on each side of her head, fingers intertwined, their tongues languidly imitate some of what their lower-halves will probably be doing again before long, aching body parts be damned, walking is overrated anyway.

That is, until the ringing of a phone pierces through the semi-silence of the room.

She knows the phone is Peter's, the sound coming from his discarded pants on the floor; hers is still in her purse, somewhere in the living room, completely ignored as well as forgotten. Right now, what Olivia wants is for him to ignore his, too, her tingling lips already missing his as he attempts to move off her with a disgruntled grunt.

"Just let it ring," she says, her nails grazing the light hair on his chest, trying to tempt him into staying in bed with her, digging her toes in his calf.

But he shakes his head, kissing her shoulder. "I can't, it could be important."

She sighs as he finally succeeds in extorting himself from the covers, which had somehow gotten quite entangled between their legs. She's a bit annoyed for sure, knowing exactly who's calling. Still, she shamelessly stares and enjoys the sight as he looks for his pants. A few seconds later, her suspicions are confirmed.

"Walter," he greets, offering Olivia a sheepish look in answer to her pursed lips, already coming back to the bed, sitting down.

This time, she actually pays attention to the conversation, her lips on his shoulder blade, and from what she hears of it, his father is probing, trying to find out what exactly he's been up to all day, and when he'll be back. When she finally gets a glance at the clock on the nightstand, she's almost shocked to see it's already past 5pm. Considering they both have a four hours' drive ahead of them, they really need to stop postponing the inevitable.

Her mind now set on taking another shower, she leaves the bed, not without pressing a rather loud kiss on his skin first, only inches from the phone. He lets her shower alone, this time, and she guesses Walter successfully guilted him into coming back.

Gathering up their things doesn't take long, and soon they're standing in front of the elevator. With her bag hooked over her shoulder, she presses the call button with a firm hand, pretending she's not anxious. She also purposefully avoids Peter's eyes, aware that all he has to do is look at her to know she _is_ anxious.

She has no other choice but to look up at him when she feels his fingers on her cheek. She doesn't know what she expected to find in his eyes, but that dark, hungry gleam definitely wasn't it, not _now_. Before she can as much as frown, he's brought his second hand to her face, pulling her up into a kiss that is as intense as it is unexpected. Even through her slight surprise, her free hand swiftly comes up to his chest, her fingers clenching the hem of his peacoat.

When she hears the doors opening, he doesn't give her a moment to think, kicking his traveling bag inside the elevator before pushing her in as well. He only briefly lets go of her to press the button that will take them all the way down to the parking level, before he resumes his forward motion, until she's pinned to the wall.

"What are you doing?" She asks as he leans down to kiss her again.

She registers the closing doors, feels the bulging return of this oppressing breathlessness that always takes over her when she finds herself enclosed in the small space. Yet, it seems more…distant, too caught up in Peter's gaze and the pressure of his body against hers to fully register it.

"I'm distracting you," he replies simply. "I thought that was obvious."

She gives him a look. "Well, yeah. But we're not in a lockdown anymore, that camera over there is working again. Do you really want to give them that kind of footage?"

His face scrunches up in an exaggerated frown. "My father _owns_ the place," he says, with that hint of cockiness she enjoys a bit too much. "You and I both know he would probably cry watching a tape of this."

Almost to her surprise, Olivia finds herself chuckling good-heartedly, the sound soon muffled by his lips, not giving her much of a choice, only because he knows she's perfectly willing. The feel of him is entrancing as he kisses her deep, and slow, pressing her more and more firmly into the wall. Before long, her bag drops to the floor, swiftly discarded as she wraps both her arms around his neck, feeling the subtle yet unmistakable roll of his hips into hers.

She realizes how successful his distraction is when she feels the elevator come to a stop, her foggy brain even registering the doors opening. For a moment, she thinks they may have made it all the way down, until she hears the distinctive sound of someone politely clearing their throat.

She lets go of his lips, pushing herself up on her toes to look over his shoulder, meeting Nina Sharp's gaze in the process.

"Oh shit," Olivia breathes out as she falls back on her heels, now pushing Peter away from her not so gently. He lets her go swiftly enough, turning around to face the new arrival.

"Good evening Miss Sharp," he says, _smugly_, not even slightly embarrassed, while Olivia feels herself becoming as red as Nina's lipstick.

"Peter, Olivia," she greets them with a polite nod, the faintest of smile on her lips as the elevator begins moving again. "I have to say, this is…surprising. The last time I spoke to Walter, he told me the two of you had a falling out. I take it you've reconciled, then?"

"We sure did," Peter confirms, in a tone so suggestive he could as well have been giving her details on how many times they'd 'reconciled'. If she hadn't been standing frozen to the spot, Olivia would have elbowed him in the ribs, _hard_.

Nina simply keeps on smiling that tiny smile of hers. "Well, that is excellent news," she says. "You certainly deserve to be happy."

The elevator stops again, opening up to the lobby, saving Olivia the need to say anything at all. Ever so elegant, Nina merely nods her head at them. "You two have a good night," she says with the slightest rise of her eyebrow, and then she's gone.

As the doors close again, Olivia brings both her hands to her flushed face with an embarrassed groan, while Peter _snorts_ at her sides.

"This is not _funny_," she reprimands him a second later, slapping his shoulder.

"It's a little funny," he contests. His grin dims when he takes in the disgruntled, mortified look on her face. "C'mon, don't worry about it. She won't gossip. If someone can keep a secret, it's Nina Sharp."

Olivia can hardly argue with that. If anything else, between Peter and Nina, she's been successfully distracted, soon able to exit the elevator.

They walk to her car, first, and already, most of the glee she's been feeling today seems to have been drained out of her again. She could blame it on her lingering embarrassment at being caught making-out in a Massive Dynamic elevator by the company's acting CEO, but the incident barely matters.

Her returning pessimism has little to do with embarrassment, and everything to do with having to put an end to what she and Peter had here today, about to spend four hours alone in her car, with nothing to do but overthink everything.

The truth is, she's not thrilled about having to let go of him. Life has a tendency to yank him away from her whenever she allows herself to hope a little too much.

As she turns to look up at him after dropping her bag in her trunk, she knows the moment she meets his eyes that he feels it, too. They don't speak, sharing more in their silence than they could with words. Already, he's cupping her face again, and when he leans down to kiss her, it couldn't be more different from their last embrace, and his tenderness is as entrancing as his passion; it always is. Olivia lets the kiss stretch, once again holding on to the hem of his coat, wishing nothing more than to disappear inside the fabric and remain there, indefinitely.

When he eventually pulls away from her, just enough for their eyes to meet, his gaze is beautifully serene, yet filled with that perpetual warmth and yearning for her that make her toes curl in her shoes.

"So," he says softly against her lips. "Your place or mine?"

With any other couple, this question about where they want to spend the night would have been simple, the place not mattering much as long as they got to spend it together. But they are not a typical pair, never were, and never will be.

The meaning behind his question is heavy, and it hangs in the air, surrounds them like a thick blanket. Going to his place means Walter and his over-enthusiastic, tactless self. Going to her place means acknowledging and dealing with the fact it won't be the first night he'd spend in her bed.

Walter, or her ghosts?

"My place," she eventually answers, quietly, trying to smile, but not quite managing it. Peter doesn't smile either, perfectly attuned to her, for which she is grateful.

She's aware that going to his place would be less straining, emotionally speaking, but she hopes that the sooner they get through this, the faster they can move on.

"Okay," he says softly with a nod. "I'll have to make a quick stop at mine first, though, talk to Walter. What about you go home, and I'll bring us some dinner when I come over?"

She nods in his hands, too fast. "Sounds good," she says, but already, her voice is lower, feeling her throat constricting slightly.

This is _ridiculous_.

She knows that her emotions have been unmanageable all day long, which has to be a combined effect from the emotional breakdown she had the previous night, and some chemical unbalance caused by the day's activities. The physiological explanation doesn't matter much.

She feels absolutely bare right now, even under her three layers of clothes. She has let herself be completely vulnerable and raw with him, and she has yet to find a way to put her defenses back up.

Still, it doesn't make the fact that she's getting _choked up_ because they have to drive back to Boston in separate cars any less embarrassing.

Peter is aware of her turmoil. He doesn't say anything, pressing a kiss to her forehead instead, before wrapping her in his arms, tightly. She responds in kind, clinging a little too hard as she buries her face against his neck, as intoxicated as ever by the smell of his skin.

Eventually, he pulls away from her, bending down to pick up his bag. When he brings a hand back to her face, he curls a finger under her chin, pressing a quick but loving kiss upon her lips. "I'll see you in a few hours," he promises, his eyes boring into hers. Then he's walking away, swiftly.

He doesn't turn back once, and it's better that way.

When she gets into her car, Olivia doesn't start driving; she's not in a hurry. The faster she gets back to her place, the longer she'll have to wait for him to join her, and she's not exactly looking forward to pacing from one room to the other.

She gets her phone out instead, quite honestly surprised that it doesn't even display one missed call or text message. It's as if the universes have come together to give her this much needed twenty-four hours break.

Her thoughts drift to the 'conversation' she and Peter had earlier in the kitchen, and how upset she'd become when he suggested that she might need a real break from work. She remembers what he told her, some time later, unable not to recognize the fact that he was, once again, right.

She has to stop pushing, to stop pretending it will all go away on its own. She has to give her bruises time to heal.

Quite impulsively, Olivia finds herself dialing Broyles' number, bringing the phone to her ear before she can change her mind.

"Dunham," he greets her.

"Sir," she begins. Then, she's at a loss for words. How on earth is she supposed to say this? "Uhm, I was wondering…well, I know it's a bit…short noticed but uhm, I was thinking maybe…"

The silence stretches for a few seconds. "What is it about, Olivia?" He asks, a little less gruffly than usual. The use of her first name is telling enough.

She takes a steadying breath. "I would like to take a few days off work."

There is another pause, and then: "Very well."

Very _well_?

He's not even going to argue a little over this? Fight for his supposedly best agent not to abandon ship in the middle of a universal war?

"I…I can be back before the end of the week if you need-"

"Dunham," he cuts her off curtly, back to his usual self. "Do you know how many days off you've taken over the past two and a half years?"

"Uh…"

"Exactly," he says. "I know how to reach you if your presence here becomes indispensable. Which it is, most of the time, I hope you know that."

"Thank you, sir."

"That being said, take as much time as you need. You more than deserve the break. And I won't accept anything less than a full week off."

And on those words, he hangs up on her.

Olivia remains motionless for a moment, still frowning, mouth pursed. This was…easier than she expected. Although she probably won't realize she's officially off work until she finds herself bored to death and restless in her apartment in the upcoming days.

Once again, Peter's words come back to her, so clearly that he could as well be sitting right there next to her, his clear blue eyes piercing through her.

_You could use that time to go visit your sister in Chicago._

Olivia is staring at her phone again, her heart already beating faster. She hasn't talked to her sister in months, not since that morning she gave Ella her cross and kissed them both goodbye.

Rachel has made quite a few attempts since she's been back, mostly short texts or messages left on her machine asking if she's alright, telling her to call her back whenever she has the time. Olivia deleted them all, burying it all inside, like she does so many other things.

The thought of her sister and niece interacting with her Alternate and not seeing through her deception any more than the others…she just couldn't bear it.

But Peter said they weren't even in Boston anymore by the time they arrived back from the Other Side, which is a bit odd, considering they'd been staying at her place when she left. As far as his claims about the other _her_ not going to visit them…He couldn't be exactly sure of what she'd been doing on her free time, could he?

Yet again, why would this other Olivia have risked meeting with her sister, who supposedly knew her best, knew her the longest at the very least? Even meeting her seven year old niece would have been risky; children are oddly perceptive. Tactically, visiting them wouldn't have made any sense.

And so, for the second time in minutes, Olivia impulsively dials a number, taking a few calming breaths as the line rings.

"Hello?"

The moment she hears her little sister's voice, some of the pressure on her chest disappears. She hadn't realized just how much she'd _missed_ the sound of it.

"Hey, it's me," she says, thankfully sounding a lot less shaken than she feels.

"Liv!" Rachel exclaims, and her thrill is genuine. "Thank _god_, I was seriously getting worried about you!"

"I'm…sorry," Olivia shakes her head, pointlessly. "I've been…life's been crazy."

"Yeah, I know, you told me it would be, but still, I was starting to think you were mad at me or something."

Already, Olivia's heart is sinking again. When had she told her that?

"Why…why would I be mad at you?" She tries her best to sound a little amused at the thought, when she couldn't be further from it.

"Well, I figured it had something to do with Ella and me taking off so abruptly when you were away, after I got called back at work? That's when you started ignoring all of my calls, well, never answered any of them, anyway. All I got was that short email you sent me a few days later, when you told me you were gonna be on some kind of 'special assignment' and wouldn't be reachable for some time? I don't know, Liv, it was all so unlike you. And then, Ella kept on telling me you actually tried calling her on her birthday?"

Olivia is physically unable to speak for a moment, aware that she's fighting a losing battle, overwhelmed by her own relief. Peter had been right; her Alternate hadn't tried talking to Rachel at all, not even on the phone.

And if she were honest with herself, Olivia knows this probably had nothing to do with the woman trying to protect her cover at all cost, and more to do with staying away from a loved one who was dead on _her_ side.

She still has the memories of Rachel's death in her head, she knows how devastating it had been for her Alternate. Hadn't she herself stayed away from her mother during her last few days on the Other Side, once she became aware of who she was again?

"Olivia?" Rachel sounds worried now, probably hearing her sister's breathing, which is a bit too loud, as she tries to keep her emotions under control.

"I'm here," she says, her tone reassuring, although her voice is too thick.

"Are you –oh, ouch! Wait-" There is some shuffling noises, muffled voices, until…

"Aunt Liv!"

Ella's thrilling voice would have caused anyone else to take the phone away from their ear, but Olivia only presses it more firmly to it.

"Hi," she greets her niece warmly, and she knows she's smiling more widely than she has in months. Her heart certainly feels lighter, and about a thousand times bigger.

"Aunt Liv, you've _got_ to tell mom I'm not lying," Ella says, emphatically, in that dramatic tone children are so good at using. "I told her you called me on my birthday, but she says it wasn't you, because you'd have called back later if you really had. But you called me, right?"

Olivia has closed her eyes, feeling the hot streaks of tears finally running down her face. She lets them be, because she's still smiling, comforted by her niece's voice, by the confirmation that some parts of her life have been left untouched, after all.

And this part of her is particularly precious to her.

She remembers with perfect clarity how that little person had recognized her voice with just one word, how she had called out to her in excitement and delight.

_Aunt Liv! I knew you wouldn't forget my birthday!_

She remembers the flood of memories that had rushed through her, how everything had shifted and come back into place. While it was her love and grief for her deceased mother that had broken her will to fight off the foreign memories that were forced upon her, it was her love for her niece that broke through the delusion, setting her mind free at last.

"I did, baby girl," Olivia eventually answers, almost as a _thank you_, as she finally resumes the phone call she never got to finish, all these weeks ago. "I wouldn't forget your birthday for the world."

Not even for two.

* * *

**A/N:** Dear show, I love you, but you _never _brought back Rachel and Ella after that phone call on Ella's birthday (not counting 3x22), when they were such a big part of Olivia's life in the first 2 seasons. What was that about? So, I'm dealing with this, too. And I'll deal with it a bit more, because I can.

In any case, I hope you liked this part! More will come, obviously, but until then…don't forget the review! :)


	9. IX

**A/N: **Four months ago when I wrote this part's first draft, I was bothered by the fact that it was a lot shorter than all the other chapters. Fast forward four months and about 12 drafts, it has now become the longest part of this story. I hate myself, but hopefully, you guys will enjoy it haha.

As always, thank you for sticking around :) Please forgive my ridiculous typos, I'm tired.

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**IX.**

* * *

Olivia may have miscalculated how long it would take her to get back to Boston once she left Massive Dynamic.

She certainly hadn't factored in the fact that spending half an hour making various phone calls would result in her attempting to leave the city at one of its busiest hours.

_Is everything alright?_

This text from Peter, received a few hours later as she finally approaches Boston, causes her to curse under her breath, her apprehension growing. He wouldn't be asking this particular question if he hadn't already made it to her apartment, when she obviously hadn't. She had dreaded this might happen ever since she realized her trip back would take longer than anticipated.

As she had feared, the long hours spent alone in her car had been tedious; she'd barely managed to escape New York that she was already regretting choosing to make them spend the night at her place instead of his. What good could come from forcing them both in a place she _knows_ he would rather avoid?

_Got stuck in traffic_, she answers simply. _Be there in 10._

Nine minutes later, she's parking in front of her building, feeling more and more unnerved by the fact that she did not get any time at _all_ to do some of the things that needed to be done. Beyond some necessary tidying up, she could have used one or two shots of whiskey before he arrived.

She smells the food as soon as she steps into the hallway, before she even spots him; he's leaning against the wall near her door, a take-out bag at his feet. Despite her nervousness, her heart leaps at the sight of him, her insides twisting in an odd combination of nerves and relief, along with that embarrassing hint of giddiness she's been feeling for most of the day. That particular feeling turns into a delicious ache somewhere in her chest when their eyes meet and he smiles at her.

By the time she's walked the short distance to her door, though, anxiety has already taken over. "I'm really sorry," she says, the tension clear in her voice, now keeping her eyes and focus on her key-chain. "I made a few phone calls before leaving Massive Dynamic and ended up stuck in rush hour traffic."

She does not elaborate on those calls. Although she does plan on telling him about her talks with Broyles and Rachel, she figures Peter will not mind not hearing about the short conversation she had with Lucas, whom she'd called out of guilt more than anything else. She'd wanted to apologize for the abrupt way she'd left the previous evening, also aware on some level that if not for him and his brother's wedding, last night and today would have had a much different outcome.

She didn't say any of this to Lucas either, realizing that her ex-boyfriend could do without these details as well.

"Don't worry about it," Peter says, and his voice is low, non-threatening; she knows from his tone that he's caught up with her state of mind, but it does little to calm her nerves. She keeps avoiding his gaze as she opens the door at last and lets them in.

The moment she turns her lights on, her uneasiness worsens, taking in the various messes she left behind before her trip to New York. She's never been 'neat', but these past few weeks, she'd put even less care than usual in keeping her apartment clean, preferring to avoid the place altogether instead.

Of all the things she wishes she'd had time to clean, though, her couch ranks first; still covered with sheets and pillows, it stands out like a sore thumb. When she throws a sideways glance at Peter and finds him staring at her makeshift bed, the look on his face confirms that he's figured it out.

Now feeling beyond flustered, Olivia's mind scrambles for a way out. "Uhm, why don't you bring the food to the kitchen," she tells him, sounding as tensed as she feels.

"Sure," he says, keeping his voice soft, and somehow, it makes her feel worse. She's too flushed and uncomfortable to even dare meet his eyes.

He got the message, though, quickly leaving her side, walking to the kitchen while Olivia leaps into action, attempting to tidy up the place as fast as possible without looking frantic. The sheets and pillows are the first to go, throwing everything on top of her washing machine; her insides twist again at the eerie feeling of déjà-vu she's now experiencing, unable not to remember the cleaning-spree she went on only weeks ago. She decides to cut this one short as soon as that thought enters her mind.

The situation does not improve when she leaves her bedroom and walks back to the kitchen, just in time to see Peter opening one of her cupboards. Judging by his startled expression, he'd expected to find her plates in there, not glasses.

"Try the one on the left," she says, attempting to keep her voice casual, in spite of the hollow feeling in her gut. "I moved a few things around."

For a moment, Peter doesn't move at all, and the silence that settles between them is thick and suffocating. He closes his eyes, then, clenching his jaw, and Olivia _knows_ he's cursing himself for this display of familiarity he's not supposed to have.

Hoping that walking away and giving each other another minute to recover from this will help, Olivia leaves him be and goes to her living-room, turning her stereo on. The music isn't loud enough to drown any conversation they may have, but the noise might make the silences more bearable.

Once she goes back to the kitchen, however, it becomes clear that no amount of background music will be enough to ease the tension that has taken over them both. While she was busying herself with the radio, Peter has taken a seat at the table, letting her know without a word that he won't touch any more of her things unless instructed to. Elbow on the table, with a hand to his mouth, he's running a finger over his lips, over and over, a sign of intense discomfort she recognizes all too well.

Everything in his body language screams of how uncomfortable he feels, and how he probably wishes he was anywhere but here. Olivia has to fight the sudden urge to walk to her bathroom and hide in there herself; this _was _a terrible idea. They haven't said more than two sentences to each other in the past ten minutes, barely even able to _look_ at one another.

She's nothing if not resolute, though, and she's decided on making this work no matter what, even if it means she has to pretend the ghost of her alternate isn't right here with them.

"You bought Italian," she eventually says as she gathers everything they need in order to eat, desperate to find something to say, _anything_ to break this silence.

He doesn't even meet her eyes, accepting the plate and silverware she's handing him. "Yeah," he says, scratching at his stubble. "I got it from that restaurant, down the street. Walter and I ate there once."

And then, silence. Something soft yet upbeat is playing in the next room, a song that rings of sunny days and happiness; the contrast between that melody and whatever is going on between them is so obnoxious that Olivia wishes she'd never turned the music on.

Even after she sits down opposite him and they've put food on their plates, they don't talk. They're not eating either. Less than two minutes of this agonizing silence go by before Olivia's resolve breaks.

For better or for worse, that ghostly presence will _have_ to be addressed.

"Peter," she begins, putting her fork down and looking up at him, hesitant to go on. So far, he's been keeping his gaze down on his plate. He's also been chewing on the same bite of pasta for the past thirty seconds.

When he raises his eyes to meet hers, finally swallowing, the way he grimaces makes it look like he just swallowed something very sour. Once again, she's getting all of his signals loud and clear, from his heavy brow to the tensed way he sits, or how she _knows_ he's forcing himself to hold her gaze right now.

After the day they had, this is both unbearable and unacceptable.

She shakes her head a little, pursing her lips. "Look," she says. "I know you don't want to talk about this any more than I do but…" She sighs, taking a steadying breath as she scratches her temple with a nervous hand, all too aware of how his elbow is already back on the table, knuckles to his lips.

"We both knew this would be…awkward," she continues, cringing a little at this understatement. "The thing is, being _here_ has been difficult for me ever since I came back. No matter how many things I moved around or replaced, I just…"

Her eyes have stopped on her couch, which stills stand out to her, no matter how bare it is, now. When she meets his eyes again, she knows he's followed her gaze. There is no point in pretending he hasn't figured it out. "You've seen the sheets," she says. "I haven't slept in my own bed in weeks, that's how _wrong_ this place has felt to me. And now, with you here, it just-"

She lets out a quivery breath, unable to put it into word. As she expected, Peter doesn't react well to her admission. She senses as much as she sees that sickening guilt taking over him again, coming out of him in waves; he looks defeated, and she's not surprised by what he asks next.

"Do you want me to go?"

Once again, his tone is soft and kind; understanding. Above all, he sounds _resigned_, as if he's already heard the answer, having somehow managed to distance himself from her, even though none of them has moved.

Olivia shakes her head, slowly, holding his gaze. "No," she says. "I want you to stay." And she means it. "I want us to, to move on from this, I really do. But I can't– I don't think we can make it work _here_, if we just pretend nothing happened. I know _I_ can't," she repeats, shaking her head again. "So…I think we need to talk about it. About her."

Hearing her say that she doesn't want him to leave doesn't seem to appease him at all, now cornered into focusing on something he's ashamed of. She knows what it must be costing him, not to leave the apartment anyway.

But Peter doesn't leave. He drops his hand instead, straightening up a little and swallowing hard as he gives her a small nod. "Alright," he agrees, his voice too throaty, now.

From the way his skin has become even paler, he seems to understand where this is going. Olivia might come to regret digging and prodding, considering she's not eager to hear any detail of any kind concerning whatever the two of them did in her apartment for eight weeks, but not knowing _anything_ is worse.

She's spent too many sleepless nights on that couch, imagining it all, making herself sick with shame, embarrassment and jealousy, her head filled with countless scenarios; she'd been unable to stop herself from tapping into her alternate's memories, a little too aware of what kind of lover _she_ must have been with him.

These same scenarios are swirling in her mind, tonight, making her feel the way she always feels whenever she compares herself to this other woman; inadequate.

Another few seconds of silence follow as Olivia tries to collect her thoughts, her heart thumping hard. "I know that you've spent time here, and that you stayed over" she eventually says, keeping her tone low and soft; the last thing she wants is to sound accusatory.

This is not about blaming him for anything, not anymore, not now. She's forgiven him, and he knows that. What she needs is…closure.

"I know you stayed over," she repeats, "but…when exactly did you start…staying?"

When he answers, he does it quietly. "About…a month after we came back from the Other Side. She…We–" He sighs, falling back against his seat. "We were just 'dating' for the first few weeks or so. She seemed to want to take things slow and I didn't–" he stops again, swallowing almost convulsively this time. Talking about this seems to be causing him physical pain. "I didn't want to pressure you into anything," he says, dejected.

Olivia nods, offering him a painful smile, because she gets it. "When you started…coming over, were you here every night?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Did she…did you ever spend the night together at your place?"

Again, he shakes his head. He looks positively greyish, now. "No."

She nods, too fast, pinching her lips. "Do you ever–"

But she cannot bring herself to finish this question, to say these words, even if it's the only thing she truly wants to know, in some twisted way. She can't do it, though. She can't put them both through the embarrassment of hearing her ask if he ever finds himself _comparing_ them, in every way two people can be compared.

Peter seems to understand what this is about, though. He leans forwards again, their gazes locked; he's too pale, his features strained, but his eyes are as intense as they were a mere hours ago, when they were still sheltered from the rest of the world, ignoring whatever had happened in the past, or whatever might happen next.

"Olivia," he says, reaching across the table for her hand, slowly, as if half-expecting her to retreat; she doesn't, letting his fingers close around hers. "I meant what I said last night. _She_ was never really…there, with me, not the way you are. These past twenty-four hours with you…I feel closer to you than I ever did with her in two months."

She holds his gaze, seeing nothing but sheer honesty in his eyes. And in that instant, she knows he would answer every single one of her questions, no matter how inappropriate or painful they might be, no matter how much they make him dwell on his mistakes.

He would answer them all, because he wants them to move on from this, too, proving once again that he wants to help her heal, even if it causes _him_ to bruise in the process.

It becomes so clear to her then, that she doesn't need to talk about this anymore; she never needed to. Everything she needs to know is right here in his eyes, and in his presence by her side, _on_ her side.

She nods again, then, more slowly this time, giving his fingers a squeeze. He squeezes back, silently agreeing to close this particular subject.

"So," she eventually says on a much lighter tone once they've released each other's hand. "How's Walter?"

Peter's face breaks into a beautiful smile, as relieved as she is to be moving on. "He's fine. He was disappointed to hear I was only stopping by, but oddly enough, he cheered up right away when I told him I would be spending the night with you."

"Oh really?" She smiles back, feeling even better when she watches him pick up his fork and dig in, his appetite apparently returning.

" Oh _really_," Peter confirms, grimacing a little. "He actually had a victory dance prepared. Nothing pretty."

After that, the mood becomes almost comfortable as they eat and talk, making a conscious effort to keep the conversation light, both drained by the way dinner started. By the time they're clearing up the table, Olivia feels physically tired as well, which, considering the day they had, is to be expected.

As she begins to wonder if Peter will expect them to resume their day's activities, uneasiness takes hold of her again. They might be doing their best to move on, she _knows_ he's done more than sleep in her bed in the past, and she's not sure how she's supposed to deal with that particular information at the moment.

"Hey," she quietly calls him out as he finishes putting their plates in the dishwasher, and he straightens up, raising an eyebrow in question. "Is that okay if we just…sleep, tonight?"

In spite of herself, she feels her face getting warmer, flustered all over again. She's not embarrassed by the topic itself –they're past being prude with each other. What she is is_ frustrated_, by this whole situation, wondering if they'll ever catch a break.

But his gaze remains soft as he stares at her. When he reaches for her face, the feel of his fingers upon her skin makes her realize they haven't touched since they left New York, with the exception of that small hand squeeze earlier. His hand on her face feels familiar and comforting; safe.

She instinctively leans into him, then, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his chest, feeling his lips on the top of her head. He responds to her embrace by enclosing her into a hug that is as tender as it is tight.

"Sleep sounds good," he says into her hair.

As she sinks into him and feels the tension leave her body at last, she also realizes that _this_ is what they needed all along, this quiet intimacy.

Minutes later, they're getting ready for bed, and she cannot believe how natural it feels. There is something ridiculously pleasing and calming in standing next to him in her bathroom, sharing the same sink as they brush their teeth. Such a coupley act should feel odd and unfamiliar; it feels delightfully _normal_ instead, and she loves it. She loves it even more when Peter notices her amused smile at the sight of his foam-covered mouth, which leads to a couple of toothpaste-tasting kisses.

Whatever discomfort she dreaded she might feel upon being back in her bed never comes, soothed by his presence alone; she doesn't miss the irony in this. Once they have settled down, snuggled up under the covers with her nose pressed to his neck and their legs entangled, she feels comfortable enough to tell him about the calls she made.

"I called Broyles earlier tonight," she whispers. "I've got the week off work."

After a pause, she feels his arms tighten around her, his warm breath once again in her hair. "That's good," he says, almost casually.

That delicious ache in her chest is back, loving him a little more for pretending this isn't a big deal, when they both know it is. It makes the next thing she wants to say even easier.

"I called Rachel, too," she continues, matching his tone. "Ella's off school this week, so I'm going to go spend a couple of days with them once she comes back from her dad's." After another pause during which her heart speeds up a little in spite of herself, she adds: "I was thinking…maybe you could come with me?"

He's quiet and still for another second, before he moves, lessening his hold on her and shifting their bodies so that their eyes can meet. There isn't much light in the room, but that is all she needs as he brings their faces closer together, bumping her nose with his, and she buries her fingers in his hair.

"I'd love that," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

That night, they both sleep soundly.

…

The next morning, when Peter wakes up in a bed that isn't his own, the setting is so eerily familiar that he feels like he's traveled a few months back in time. It isn't only in that window streaming daylight, or in the feel of the mattress beneath him.

He's in Olivia's bed, and he's alone in it.

His mind is so shrouded with sleep that his confusion morphs into apprehension for a moment, the suffocating kind that entraps air in his lungs. His anxiety doesn't last, a noise soon making it through the fog, and he forces himself to focus on it. It is the unmistakable sound of fingers typing away on a keyboard, somewhere in the distance.

Rolling on his other side and squinting as his eyes adjust to the brightness, his gaze falls upon the digital clock on the nightstand, before taking in the small gap between her bedroom's doors, left ajar accidentally on purpose. By then, his mind has reconnected with the present, and most of his anxiety leaves him at once. Judging by the time of the day, Olivia's absence from the bed makes sense; she's not the type of person who would allow a whole morning to go to waste twice in a row.

As he rolls back over and lies spread-eagle in the middle of her bed, staring at a too-familiar crack on her ceiling, Peter's thoughts deviate again, feeling more than a little embarrassed for having believed even for a second that he was back with the wrong person. He's also smart enough to realize there is little he can do about it.

Olivia had asked him last night if he used to spend every night here. Although he hadn't lied, he hadn't been entirely honest either; once he'd started sleeping with whom he _thought_ was her, he hadn't spent more than three or four nights in his own bed.

At the time, it had been easy to convince himself that 'Olivia' rarely was by his side in the morning because she was a light sleeper with insomnia tendencies who, on top of being an independent woman who had her own habits, also happened to have a strong dislike for inaction. After learning the truth, he had qualified her alternate's behavior as avoidance, more than anything else.

Considering he's with the _right _woman now and yet still woke up alone, he's not so sure anymore.

Feeling unsettled all over again, Peter extracts himself from the warmth of the sheets, running a hand through what appears to be extremely messy hair, before pushing the doors open. He spots Olivia at once, curled up on her couch, laptop balanced on her knees, a few files lying opened around her.

She must have showered a while ago, judging by her drying hair, only wearing a black robe and her reading glasses. There is nothing special about the scene or what she's doing, but she looks so _herself_ right now that it is enough to settle his nerves.

After spending a proper amount of time watching her, he decides to make his presence known. "This might come as a shock to you, but most people who take time off from work don't actually use that time to, you know. Work."

For the first time since he joined her, she turns her eyes on him, peering at him over the rim of her glasses.

"I'm not working," she replies, matter-of-factly. "Just catching up with the news. I've been completely out of the loop these past couple of days."

Peter remains silent, choosing to give her a pointed look instead, eyeing her work files scattered all over the couch, before meeting her eyes again, and she purses her lips.

"Oh, shut up," she breathes out, already looking back at her screen.

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't say it very loudly."

Grinning a bit too widely, he makes his way to her. There is no room for him to sit, but he cannot care less, leaning down to kiss her cheek; he lingers in the fresh scent of her shampoo and soap, and in that something else that is entirely hers. As he nuzzles the side of her face, she brings a hand up, weaving her fingers through his hair, her touch distracted, yet undeniably tender.

Pulling away, he spots her empty mug on the coffee table. "Need a refill?"

She flashes him a quick smile, shaking her head, her mind still obviously focused on whatever she's been doing. "I'm good. Help yourself, though, there's a fresh pot in the kitchen."

That is what he does, after making a brief detour by the bathroom first. Once in the kitchen, he finds where she's relocated her mugs after only a couple of failed attempts. As he fills one up with warm coffee, he forces himself not to let the faint discomfort he feels at being _here_ escalate again.

His brain doesn't give him much of a choice, though, now remembering _how_ he had come to know her kitchen so well, that one morning he decided to bring 'her' breakfast in bed. He had added milk to her coffee, that day, not once thinking about how odd it was that she didn't like it black with one sugar anymore.

Reluctant to let his thoughts continue down that road again, Peter grabs his mug and walks back to the living room, coming to stand behind the couch instead, looking down at Olivia's screen. "Need any help?"

"Uh uh," she declines his offer again. "It's probably just a wild-goose chase anyway. I was reading an article earlier, and it brought back elements from an old cold case of mine. Something just…clicked, you know? I'm just trying to figure it out."

He smiles, as always fascinated by the way her mind works. He would have been happy to spend the next hour or so standing there, drinking his coffee while watching her 'do her thing', staring at her profile more than at her computer screen.

But she frowns, then, cranking her neck to look up at him, as if only now realizing he's been standing there the whole time. "You can sit down, you know."

He chuckles. "I don't want to disturb your workspace."

She purses her lips. "The armchair's quite comfy," she says, indicating it with a tilt of her chin, her gaze already back on her screen. "It's a bit hard for me to concentrate with you peering over my shoulder."

Peter's entire body tenses before his eyes even stop on the armchair she just mentioned. Within seconds, his discomfort is back, anything but faint now, as another set of vivid memories impose themselves in his mind, unable not to recall the hours he spent paralyzed in that chair, or how he ended up there in the first place.

"_You gonna come after me_?" _She_ had asked him, standing in front of him in Olivia's Northwestern shirt, her gun pointed at him, her aim steadier than the look in her eyes. "_You gonna kill me?_"

Needless to say, Peter has no desire whatsoever to sit in the damn thing, ever again.

Even though he doesn't say a word, doesn't make a move, as if paralyzed again, Olivia seems to sense a change. When she looks back at him, she gives him an odd look, somewhere between concern and confusion.

"What's wrong?" She asks.

_"No, I'm gonna get answers. If I find out that you did anything to Olivia, then I'm gonna kill you."_

Peter shakes his head, swallowing hard. "It's nothing," he says, but his voice is too hoarse.

He can't fool her.

Even if she hadn't possessed that uncanny ability of hers to connect things together, his demeanor would have been a dead giveaway. He sees her glance at the armchair again, feels himself tense even more, and when their eyes meet again, he knows something in her mind has clicked again.

After a long stretch of silence, Olivia moves. Without a word, she closes her laptop and sets it aside, before turning around, kneeling on her couch to face him. He avoids her eyes, keeping his gaze down on his coffee. He's unable to look at her, dreading whatever she might say next.

She's going to ask about it, the way she'd asked about his relationship with this other _her_ during dinner. And while part of him understands why she needs some answers, he doubts he will ever be able to talk about _that_ particular night with anyone, least of all her.

What she says instead takes him by surprise.

"I'll get rid of it," she tells him, her voice flat but decisive. "The armchair," she adds.

The fact that she decided not to ask questions doesn't make him feel better; this whole situation is too messed up for him to feel better in any way. He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "You don't have to," he says, and his voice remains too low. "It's fine."

"Peter," she protests with a hint of annoyance.

"It's fine," he repeats, a bit louder, although he still cannot meet her eyes. "It's just a chair."

"Sure," she says. "And that elevator the other night was just an elevator."

He _has _to look at her, then. She is a bit too pale herself, not liking this any more than him, but once again, there is no accusation in her eyes. At that instant, she looks stubborn and fierce.

"We're both intelligent people," she says after a moment. "I realize that I probably would have to replace every piece of furniture in this apartment for you to never get triggered by something I own again. But in the end, you're right. This," she tilts her head toward the armchair without looking at it, "is just a chair. Something tangible we can get rid of. Which is why it's gonna go in the trash."

Despite her words, he feels dejected all over again. He cannot put it into words, but there is something _humiliating _in realizing that on the night his whole world had come crumbling down, only weeks ago, he was standing in this very room, wearing almost the exact same clothes.

She might get rid of the armchair, getting rid of his self-loathing won't be as easy.

When Olivia had first noticed Peter's reaction, her imagination had gone wild again; for one unpleasant moment, her mind had come up with all kind of scenarios depicting what he and her alternate might have done on that chair to cause him to react that way. The images had quickly shattered away, though, replaced by the very real look on her lover's face.

Because what she sensed beyond his shame was _hurt_, plain and simple.

That same hurt is still radiating out of his every pore. She doesn't know what happened, and he might never tell her, but she cannot stand the ache it makes her feel, hurting for him,

In an attempt to soothe them both, she raises her hands to his face, and Peter leans into her touch, closing his eyes. Just like he would, she brings her face to his, then, not saying anything else as she presses her nose to his cheekbone. He lets out a wobbly breath near her ear when she weaves her fingers through his hair, holding him to her.

The way he simply stands there, tense and quiet, accepting her touch yet not reciprocating it, says more about his state of mind than anything else. These past couple of days, he's been so supportive in helping her deal with her issues, she'd almost forgotten that he's battling with his own demons.

She has no intention of letting him battle alone, though.

Before long, she has to pull away, her glasses digging uncomfortably into her face. But when she reaches up to take them off, Peter finally moves, intercepting her hand with a small shake of his head.

"Keep them on," he says. Once again, his voice is soft, lower than usual. His eyes are darker, too.

What she instinctively understands from his request is that her alternate never wore those glasses around him. When she was living _her_ life Over There, the Secretary may have gone as far as to put that tattoo on the back of her neck, they forgot to correct her vision, something the other Olivia had done years ago.

Olivia remembers spending a ridiculous amount of time searching _her_ apartment for _her_ old reading glasses, one afternoon. Her head had been aching from trying to read the blurry lines of a report on her tablet, annoyed and a bit confused by how her 'mental breakdown' could have caused her vision to deteriorate again.

There is no hint of a smile on Peter's lips as he stares at her in these glasses today, and she knows this has nothing to do with fulfilling some kind of fantasy. She is aware of the attention he's been giving her, on a mere physical level, in ways that go beyond what any considerate lover would do. He's not learning her body the way she's learning his; his focus is different, more intent, almost driven.

Trying to imagine what it must feel like for him, to be with her after being with another _version_ of her, is too unsettling –not to say disturbing, for her to think about it for more than a few seconds at a time. But even now, the unrelenting intensity of his gaze makes it clear that, no matter how often this other _her_ crosses his mind, Olivia is the only one he sees.

After giving his fingers a squeeze, she releases Peter's hand, grabbing his mug and quickly discarding of it on the coffee table. When she turns back to him, his fingers are already sneaking into her hair, his other hand coming around her to circle her waist. As he pulls her closer, pressing her against the back of the couch, she wraps her arms around his neck, his warm breath soon pooling over her lips, forehead to forehead.

And then, he becomes motionless again; not tensed, but _still_, as if he's taking it all in, not quite believing this is real. She understands all too well.

Only a week ago, she had spent her nights lying on that very couch, lonely and cold, unable to sleep, convinced that the two of them would never be able to hold each other's gaze for more than a few excruciating seconds, let alone have a proper conversation.

And yet, here she is, safe in his arms, the feel of him so familiar and innate, her every cell tingles wherever his skin touches her.

"You okay?" she whispers against his lips, her fingers gently moving through his hair on the back of his head.

She feels him nod against her, feels his hold on her tightening, before he presses his mouth to hers. His kiss is soft, almost reverent; unhurried. This proximity is too entrancing, though, too intoxicating for it not to escalate, slowly gaining in heat and momentum. Soon, their embrace turns into heaving breaths and roaming hands, fingers slipping beneath fabric and inside robes, running over shivering skin.

Any odd feeling Olivia might have had the previous night regarding this kind of physicality _here_ is gone for good. At that instant, her ghosts are nothing more than mirages in the distance, unsubstantial. She's warm, and safe, craving him.

She had forgotten how this felt like, to yearn and desire, and to know herself to _be_ desired, so aware of her own body, and of the way it fits with his. She's never been one to believe in soulmates, but she does believe some people are more compatible than others.

Peter…she feels like she was meant for him, for his body and his skin, for his eyes and the way they so effortlessly reach down, inside, within, always finding her there. And she knows how to find him just as easily, now, as if he doesn't simply belong with her; he belongs _to_ her, as she belongs to him, body and soul.

Even now, still clothed and with that couch between them, she feels absolutely bare, his wandering breath upon her neck igniting a slow burning fire. It will grow with each of his caresses; it will expend and consume everything in its path, until there is an inferno roaring beneath her skin, where her bones used to be.

And it doesn't matter, if all that is left of her in the midst of their passion are ashes. All it takes is the whisper of her name from his lips for her to be reborn.

…

Five minutes.

Peter was upstairs for _five_ minutes, finishing up packing. The universe saw the opportunity, and took it.

He hurries out of his room as soon as he hears the distant knocks on the front door. He's not fast enough, Walter having beaten him to the door, his hand already on the knob.

"Walter," Peter growls, stopping midway down the stairs. His father gives him a shrewd, victorious smile, before opening the door.

Olivia stands on the porch, hands buried in her coat's pockets, looking only mildly surprised to be greeted by this particular Bishop.

"Olivia!" Walter beams, and the fact that he doesn't start bouncing on the spot is impressive.

"Good morning, Walter," she replies, warmly enough, even though she looks like she's anything but warm. She can't have been standing outside for long, yet her cheeks and the tip of her nose are already rosier than the rest of her face, the winter breeze making her hair flutter.

Her eyes shift, then, looking over Walter's head and spotting Peter, still standing in the middle of the stairs. Her eyes soften even more when she meets his gaze, as does her smile, and Peter thinks she has never looked lovelier, his heart now doing most of the fluttering.

Before they can greet each other, Walter is gesturing Olivia inside. "Don't stay in the cold, dear. Why don't you let Peter undress you, before you join us in the kitchen?"

The old man closes the door and shuffles back toward the kitchen, leaving Olivia standing frozen in the middle of the foyer, staring at what Peter knows to be his father's bare back –and buttocks, confirming that the apron _is_ the only thing he's wearing. She looks as taken aback by the view as she is by his words.

Walter stops in the kitchen's doorway just as Peter comes down the rest of the steps, turning around to face Olivia again; the way he smiles at her makes it obvious he's high on more than happiness. "And by undressing you, I meant taking off your winter garments, of course," he adds. "I realize you probably don't feel comfortable enough to join me in Naked Tuesday yet." And on those words, he disappears inside the kitchen, giving them another gratuitous eyeful in the process.

Between her frown and resigned pout, Olivia looks particularly endearing. Granted, it might just be the beanie she's wearing, which always makes her look adorable. She turns to look up at him. "Naked Tuesday?" she asks, although her tone tells him she doesn't _really _want to know.

Peter smiles. "One of his many traditions, I'm afraid. Be glad I convinced him to wear the apron. Any other Tuesday, and he would be cooking while completely in the nude."

"Is that safe?" she asks, a laugh in her voice, taking off her gloves, followed by the beanie, proving that she's perfectly capable of undressing herself.

When it comes to undressing her, however, Peter is always happy to help. Not to mention that keeping his hands off her is becoming increasingly harder, his fingers now on her scarf. "Not remotely," he answers with a grimace. "It's not pretty either, but you get used to it."

He never gets around to taking her scarf off, though, as her hands have come to rest on his sides, bringing their bodies and faces much closer in the process, and that is one silent call he cannot resist. He releases the scarf to cup her cheeks instead, and she pushes herself up as he leans in, meeting halfway in a greeting kiss.

Keeping that particular kiss from turning into something a lot less innocent proves to be difficult. She feels heavenly, and smells a thousand times better than the various dishes Walter is cooking up nearby –including bacon. From the way her arms are swift to come around him, or how she apparently doesn't give a damn about keeping things _that_ innocent, she seems to share his longing.

"Slept well?" He eventually asks against her lips.

She lets out a silent chuckle, answering with a vague shake of her head. "Did you?"

"Hell no," he replies with another quick kiss, soon followed by yet another kiss, less…quick. "This 'sleeping in different beds' thing? Let's not do that again."

She smirks in agreement, unwrapping her arms from around him, and he reluctantly lets her go. He watches a bit too intently as she takes her coat off, well aware that the faint blush on her cheeks isn't caused by cold anymore. She gives him a disapproving look for making this more suggestive than it is, dropping her garments on the couch.

"Let's go find Walter," he says with his own little smirk, tilting his head towards the kitchen. "He made breakfast for fifteen people."

Her smile turns a bit shy as she nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her outfit is unusually casual, today, wearing jeans and a grey hoodie; Peter has to exert some serious self-control not to grab her hand and sneak upstairs with her, so that they can make up for the last twelve, atrocious hours they spent apart.

They cannot ignore the half-naked man who's humming at the stove, though, since the whole point of them having breakfast _here_ is to spend some time with Walter. Considering they're about to leave him alone for the rest of the week, and since Olivia still seemed reluctant to spend the night at his place, they'd settled for an evening apart instead, and an early breakfast at the Bishops before they were to hit the road.

Once in the kitchen, Olivia bravely takes a seat, trying her best to look everywhere but at Walter's exposed body parts. His father is busy flipping the last of the pancakes, humming what Peter now recognizes as some rendition of the wedding march. He shakes his head in apology, handing Olivia a mug filled with coffee.

"So tell me," Walter begins as Peter takes a seat next to Olivia, resting a hand on her thigh and giving her a reassuring squeeze. "How much road are you two lovebirds planning on covering today?"

"I'm pretty sure we can tackle most of the New York state," he answers, moving his hand back to his own mug. Beside him, Olivia scoffs in her coffee, and Peter's smile widens.

Obviously, turning their excursion to Chicago into a road trip hadn't been her idea.

"Why would we waste _three_ _days_ doing something that can be done in one?" Olivia had asked in incredulity after he suggested it, less than twenty-four hours ago.

This discussion had taken place in her living room. On her couch, more precisely. Well, to be exact, _he_'d been sitting on her couch, his shirt drenched with sweat.

Olivia had been on him, for the most part, her robe hanging low on her arms, her glasses having slid precariously close to the tip of her nose. In their previous frenzy, they had knocked quite a few of her files to the ground, papers scattered all over the floor.

"Just because you somehow manage to drive almost a thousand miles within a day does not necessarily mean you should do it," he'd replied, unable not to chuckle at her expression. "Have you ever taken a road trip?" The look she gave him was the only answer he needed. "Forget I even asked," he'd said with a hint of sarcasm. "Why do something slowly when we can do it fast, right? Actually, I think we just proved that point."

Even though she'd agreed to extend their travel and take a longer road to Chicago, Peter knows she remains doubtful. The fact that she decided to give it a try at all is more than enough, though.

Right now, he watches as Walter stacks a huge pile of blueberry pancakes onto Olivia's plate, who tries to smile at the sight, and ultimately fails. "I've been meaning to ask you," Walter says. "What is your shoe size?"

She looks up from the intimidating tower of food. "My shoe size?"

"I was going to ask Astro to go shopping with me tomorrow. I want to buy you some slippers for when you stay over. This house gets quite chilly at night, I wouldn't want you to catch a cold." Olivia smiles, apparently torn between discomfort and endearment, until he adds: "You _are_ planning on spending the night in the future, aren't you?" at which point her discomfort takes over.

"Well, uhm, yes, that's the plan," she says, keeping her eyes on her plate, focusing on the pancake she'd picked from the pile, making a show of cutting it into tiny pieces.

Walter, who has finally taken a seat opposite them, now leans over the table, giving her a sly smile, before telling her in a matching tone: "I'm a very heavy sleeper."

Her knife comes to an abrupt stop, scratching the plate in the process.

"Excuse me?" Olivia asks, her polite smile almost painful to watch.

"It's the medication, you see. They make me sleep like a rock! I wanted to make that clear, in case you were reluctant to stay over in fear of being overheard whenever you share Peter's bed."

Olivia closes her eyes, her face scrunching up. Within seconds, a deep blush is creeping over her skin.

"Walter," Peter reprimands his father, appalled by his inability to be tactful, yet unable not to be a little amused by it all.

"What?" Walter asks innocently, his fork halting midair, looking back at Olivia, whose lips are now pinched, eyes cast down, and he seems surprised by her reaction. "Oh, no, no, I did not mean anything embarrassing by it, dear!" He assures her. "In fact, being loud during intercourse is actually encouraged. You see, I once proved that vocally expressing one's pleasure results in higher levels of endorphin and oxytocin."

Peter grunts, while Olivia nods her head a few times, her lips now pressed into a painful smile, having obviously given up.

"Remember, I'm not _really_ related to this man," he tells her, now officially aggravated.

When she turns to look at him, her face is still flushed in apparent discomfort, but there is a twinkle in her eyes. "Ah, I don't know about that," she says. "I've heard you say some pretty embarrassing things."

He pouts at her, feigning indignation. "Please, there's no comparing. I've said _cheesy_ things, there's a difference."

A prime example of that had been yesterday, on her couch, shortly before he suggested taking that road trip to Chicago.

Considering the unsettling way the day had started for him, and how it had evolved, he'd felt more than a little bemused. His entire body blissfully numbed, he'd reveled in the feel of her, over and around him as she rested against him, her slowing breath tickling the side of his neck.

Peter had felt overwhelmed, not quite sure _how _he'd ended up here_,_ wondering what he'd done to be given this beautiful second chance...which had led him to say:

"I don't deserve you."

He hadn't realized how tacky it would sound indeed until she straightened up, peering at him over the rim of her fogged up glasses; the look she gave him and the way she pursed her lips seemed to say "_I'll let that one slide because you're a romantic man in his post-coital state."_

Back to present time, Peter becomes aware of his father's silence. Walter's previous jubilation has diminished dramatically. With his gaze down, almost shameful, he seems to have realized he'd once again misspoken.

Peter knows he meant no harm. Before he can try and cheer him up, though, Olivia beats him to it.

"Walter," she calls him out so that he'll meet her eyes, tentatively. She's still blushing, but both her voice and her smile are soft and patient. "I'm a size 10."

Walter offers her a quivering smile in response, before hurriedly changing the subject, having apparently prepared an extensive list of the many places he insists they should stop by during their trip. All of them involve food of some kind.

Once Peter finishes packing for good, they get ready to leave. As he expected, Olivia sits at the wheel without a second thought; she looks way too focused as she enters her sister's address into her GPS and starts up the car.

"You know you're gonna have to let me drive at some point, right?" he teases her after a couple minutes of comfortable silence.

She smirks, keeping her eyes on the road. "We'll see about that."

From her tone, he knows she's only teasing back, but there is a lot of truth to it, too. They've been working together for two and a half years, and he can count on one hand the number of times she's let him drive her car.

"The way I understand it, that's one of the main reasons why people take road trips together," he says, "so they can share the load. Or so I've heard."

Olivia frowns, then, finally glancing at him. "What do you mean, 'so you've heard'? I thought you were a road trip veteran."

"Oh, I've taken plenty of road trips," he says, too casually. "It's just the first time I don't do it alone."

Although she doesn't say anything to that, she turns to look at him as soon she stops at a red light. Peter shrugs, trying to make this seem less important than it is.

"Road trips were always about freedom to me," he explains. "Or about escaping specific places, really."

Or specific people.

Unless he had to cross an ocean -or a universe, driving had always been his M.O., from the moment he first left his mother and flew to the other side of the globe. There was something about the road itself, about knowing he was in charge of his next destination, of every mile traveled, all the while aware that there was an element of randomness to it all he would never be able to control.

Peter averts his eyes as he remembers the last time he'd driven away from Boston, a few months ago. Back then, he'd definitely sought to escape people more than the town itself, Olivia included.

The next time he speaks, he does it quietly, staring out the window. "I guess when you spend your life keeping people at arm's length, seeking a driving partner isn't exactly on top of your list."

He feels her gaze on him, yet she remains silent. He wonders if she's as aware as him that this is actually something they have in common.

As the silence stretches and she still doesn't move or speak, he begins to worry that he's made her uncomfortable by saying too much.

But she's reaching out for him, then, resting her hand on his. When he turns his head and meets her eyes, he knows she gets it. She always does.

A car honks behind them, the light having apparently turned green a few moments ago. Even though she flinches a little at the unexpected noise, Olivia doesn't seem to care, ignoring the impatient driver as she gives Peter a soft, reassuring smile, before pursing her lips.

"You can drive once we make a pit-stop," she tells him in that casual tone they're both so good at using, finally bringing her eyes back to the road and her hand on the wheel, "as long as you promise not to play with the siren."

She drives a hard bargain, but that is one deal he's happy to take without negotiations.

* * *

**A/N:** Just so you know, from what I've written of the next (and final) part, and judging by what I've got planned for it, it's going to be _disgustingly_ fluffy (*cough* also smutty, probably maybe *cough*). You've been warned, just in case you want to preserve your teeth and choose to leave it at that. Reviews would be immensely appreciated :)


	10. X

**A/N: **I really want to blame student teaching for how long it took me to get this done. But who am I kidding, I finished student teaching two months ago, so go ahead, blame me, I deserve it.

Just so you know, I've officially stopped pretending I would ever stop writing more of this story. Not saying it will be updated regularly (STOP LAUGHING), just saying it owns my soul, just like these two idiots, so who knows.

Enjoy the smut. I mean, the chapter.

* * *

**SHIVERED BONES**

* * *

**X.**

* * *

For months, Peter had contented himself with trickles of information Olivia sometimes divulged about herself.

Like him, she guarded her emotions fiercely, only allowing them to seep out to fuel her actions, making her the most driven person Peter had ever met. The way she did it wasn't exactly calculated, but it always served a greater purpose, a purpose that virtually never revolved around her. Which is why he never ceased to be taken aback whenever she opened up to him, even in the smallest manner.

A glimpse of her childhood, a quiet admission about something weighing her down, a silent plea for comfort when she was scared.

Those moments were as rare as they were unexpected, even if they had increased in frequency over time, and Peter cherished each and every one of them, not knowing when it would happen again.

Even though he's reluctant to put any kind of blame on Olivia for his inability to see past her alternate's deception, in some ways, he knows the thick walls Olivia had built around herself played their part. Back when he was with this other _her_, he never once found their lack of meaningful conversations odd, telling himself she would open up when she was ready, in hints and crumbs, probably, the way she always had.

In truth, he hadn't been any better with her, during those first two years, his admissions as cautious and sparse, unable to remember when he'd last trusted someone enough to let them see him for who he truly was. To let them see beyond the façade he'd perfected years ago, all smart wit and smug smiles.

_She's just what you need, someone who can see right through you._

Considering the rather significant changes in their relationship these past few days, going from being the tangled mess of hurt and grief that had characterized the aftermath of the Switch, to being a tangled mess of limbs, emotions and rushing sensations, Olivia's openness shouldn't surprise him as much as it used to.

And yet, every time she reveals a little more about herself, today, Peter is as captivated as he would have been a year ago. He makes it a point to match her in her honesty, to prove that he's _here_ with her, needing her to know him as much as he needs to know her.

It starts innocently enough on their way out of Boston, as she drives past Fenway Park, the upcoming Red Sox's game being heavily advertised the way these events usually are, and she casually asks him if he likes baseball.

From then on, the topics follow one another, although they remain trivial at first, the mood in the car too light and comfortable for them to want to broach the kind of heavy themes they'd addressed at Massive Dynamic, or in her apartment. They had been brutally honest with each other during those first twenty-four hours, almost out of necessity, needing to put themselves out there to break down the walls that had come up between them after her return.

But another twenty-four hours have gone by since then, including a whole night spent apart, enough time for their defenses to come back up. None of them says it out loud, but they know this is a test of sort, too, them going away together, taking a _vacation_, stuck together for the next few days.

It isn't long before a new kind of exhilaration begins to take over, though, as they drive on and realize how easy is to _talk_ to one another, the way it used to be.

Their conversation slowly changes, going from arguing over what kind of pet is the superior one, to recalling stories from earlier periods of their lives; by the time they're driving past Albany, Olivia is telling him about the first foster family she and Rachel were put into in that very city, after they'd spent a couple of months being passed around between distant relatives, none of whom had volunteered to take the long term job.

On that first day, they travel back and forth in time, as they make their way to Syracuse, New York.

Peter takes an exit before they reach the city and drives off the main highway, veering right and driving on until they find themselves entering Oswego, right on the edge of Lake Ontario. While some couples might have kept on driving for another two hours until they reached Niagara Falls, none of them cares much about seeing the waterfalls. The decision isn't completely random either, Peter having looked up the address of one of the many places Walter had scribbled on a piece of paper for them.

"_Wade's Diner," _it said. "_Best raisin bread I've ever tasted. Delicious fries, too._"

Even though she would never admit it, Peter knows Olivia only agreed to try that one out for the fries.

They park in front of the establishment in the mid afternoon. Once inside, there is a brief moment of hesitation when they're shown to their table, silently wondering if they should share a booth, or keep it more 'casual' and sit on opposite sides of the table.

They cautiously go for casual, still testing the water, not quite certain how they're supposed to behave as a 'couple' in public places yet. Although their sitting arrangement reduces proximity, after spending a good part of the day either staring at the road or at her profile, Peter cannot complain about the view.

The sun is setting outside, now, something he's only aware of because they're sitting by a window, and the shifting nuances of colors envelop Olivia like a halo. They hadn't meant to stay this long, but after they'd easily resumed their conversation, minutes flew by, and minutes turned into hours, entirely focused on one another.

He's not even telling her anything meaningful at the moment, some random story about his time in Poland, and how some language error during what was supposed to be a fairly small con nearly got him flagged by their government.

He keeps on talking, though, because she loves to listen, and he loves watching her even more.

With her elbow on the table, chin resting upon the palm of her hand, her eyes are intent yet soft, just like her smile; although she does ask a couple of pertinent questions here and there, for the most part, she barely speaks when he does, but she nods at all the right moments, and makes the most endearing faces. He feels particularly good whenever he gets a chuckle out of her, although the unwavering fond way she looks at him no matter what he says is enough to cause his slow, exquisite death.

When his story comes to an end, he doesn't jump onto another anecdote, letting a comfortable silence settle between them instead, happy to simply sit there, gazing at each other, enjoying the sweet normality of the moment.

She's still smiling softly when she looks away, her eyes roaming the diner, as if truly taking it in for the first time since they came inside.

"This reminds me of my dad," she tells him.

There is a familiar tug within Peter's chest, a deep ache that twists his insides whenever Olivia opens up to him, even now, after _hours_ spent talking to one another.

She's never mentioned her father before.

He doesn't need to say anything for her to continue, beyond needing words to communicate. She brings her eyes back to him, and he finds himself as mesmerized as ever by the way their colors change depending on their surroundings, just like her emotions. Right now, in the rubescent warmth of the setting sun, they look more gold than green.

Her next smile is of a kind he's quickly becoming familiar with, nostalgic but sweet.

"We moved around a lot when I was little, about once a year," she explains. "My dad had a pretty important job, one that he took very seriously, but he always tried his best to be there on Saturday mornings, because we had 'our thing'. We were both early birds, while Mom definitely wasn't, so she would stay home with Rachel. We would take his car, and he would drive, pretty much in any direction, letting me pick which way I wanted to go at each intersection, until we found a diner. We would have breakfast there, and sometimes, if we were early enough, we got to watch the sun rising outside. Even now, it's still my favorite time of day."

Her eyes have been drawn to the view beyond the window, and although this is dusk not dawn, Peter understands why their current setting would bring such memories forth in her mind.

"He died when I was seven," she continues, quietly. "For a long time, I envied Rachel. She was only four at the time, and even though she missed him and asked for him at first, after a while, she just...forgot, I guess. I was just old enough to remember too much."

Peter watches her, lost in her remembrance, and for what has to be the hundredth time today, he thinks about how beautiful she is. She's as casual as he's ever seen her, in that grey hoodie, hair down and a bit unkempt, not a hint of makeup on. Sharing with him something that has to have been close to her heart since childhood, something few people must know about.

Being confided in by someone so private fills him with a sense of duty, and with a strong sense of _trust_.

Without being prompted, she tells him more.

"He was so tall..." she says, distantly. "I guess he always will be, to me. And although I can't really remember his face, I know I have his eyes."

A shadow crosses her face, the sweet nostalgia making way to something darker. She finally looks away from the view outside, meeting Peter's gaze again, as if she'd sensed the shift in him, a reaction to the change in her mood. She offers him a small, pinched smile, shaking her head a little.

"My mom never really got over him, you know," she says, her voice lower. "My stepfather..." she averts her eyes again, staring down at her empty glass. "He destroyed every picture we had of him. Whenever he drank too much, he accused her of sleeping around with men who looked like my dad."

From the look on her face, Peter has no doubt more images are flashing in her mind, moments she may never share with him; not here in plain sight, at least.

"What was he like?" He asks, then, keeping his voice down, nonthreatening. "Your dad."

He'd asked the question hoping it would help her chase away some of her shadows, bringing her focus back to happier memories.

For a moment, he thinks she's not going to answer, still pensive. But when she brings her gaze back to him, a smile is already pulling at the corners of her lips, the one she's given him so many times in the past few hours.

"He was kind," she says simply, her eyes once again warm and soft; trustful.

And for the hundredth time today, Peter falls a little more in love with her.

…

Olivia wakes up the way she fell asleep; peacefully.

She's not used to this new, undisturbed sleep pattern, her nightmares having decided to leave her be for the time being, unable to compete with the quietude that has settled over her soul this week.

It won't last, but for the time being, she more than appreciates the break.

After leaving the diner the previous evening, they had driven for a few more hours before checking in at a motel. She's not sure when exactly they'd drifted off to sleep, though, their relentless talking having carried them long into the night, as intoxicated with this shared honesty as they'd first been with each other's body, back home.

She's not surprised when she meets Peter's gaze as soon as she opens her eyes; they've barely moved at all, still sharing the same pillow and body heat, their legs entangled. He's staring at her intently, a small smirk on his lips. Maybe she should have felt unnerved by it, but she only feels warm, his gaze enough to wake every inch of her, one cell at a time.

"What?" She eventually whispers, unable not to smile herself.

"Nothing," he says with a small shake of his head. "I was just thinking about how we haven't had sex in almost two days. That's pretty impressive."

Olivia lets out a rumbly chuckle, rolling her eyes a little. _Men_. So much for thinking he might have been contemplating the meaning of life.

Still smiling, she uncurls under the covers, some of her limbs numb and stiff from having been so still all night. The small discomfort does nothing to dim how relaxed and _cozy_ she feels, though, pretending she's not purposefully rubbing her leg between his as she stretches lazily.

"We probably used up our quota for the week on those first couple of days, anyway," she says with a yawn, in response to Peter's comment.

"Yeah, that was more than enough," he agrees, pretending not to feel the slow caress of her skin upon his either. "Some would even say it was too much."

"Excessive, really," she adds as she rolls back onto her side, pinning their bodies together again.

"At this point, we should probably just abstain ourselves until Sunday," he concludes.

She frowns. "Why Sunday?"

"Week two," he explains, matter-of-factly. "Fresh start. Although I guess technically, Saturday night would do."

"It's only Wednesday," she reminds him, his small, cheeky grin letting her know he's actually considering this nonsense. "_Morning_," she feels the need to add.

He pushes himself up on his elbow, resting his head on his closed fist, also putting some distance between their bodies. It's not much, but it's there, and she doesn't approve. His grin becomes more daring; he's enjoying this a little too much, and she's annoyed at how responsive she is to the way he looks, bed hair and all.

"We've both gone much, _much_ longer without having sex with each other," he casually reminds her.

Olivia chuckles again, shaking her head in disbelief, before wiggling under the covers to erase that space he'd created, her leg going back to moving over his, applying more pressure, now. But his poker face is on, completely unperturbed.

She remembers her two years of celibacy well, and has no desire whatsoever to deprive herself of something she rather enjoys, thank you very much. Especially _not _when he's radiating heat against her, his scent strong and enticing after spending so many hours cocooned in this bed together, his eyes piercing hers.

Plus, it's already been two days.

Even as she slips a hand inside his shirt and lightly rakes her nails over his back, he keeps on smirking, as if she didn't feel the shivers she's inducing beneath his skin. She's too old to react to his childish antics, but that smug, defiant grin of his is pushing all of her buttons. Who does he think he is, exactly?

There's _no_ way he can resist her –while she tries convincing herself that she can resist him, absolutely, even though she's just spent the last minute and a half keeping herself from sinking her whole hand into his messy hair, simply because it looks so tempting and she loves the feel of it between her fingers.

"I can wait four more days," she announces, then, in an assertive tone she usually reserves for FBI meetings, forcing herself to adopt the professional demeanor that goes with it, even as she moves, shifts, and pushes to change their positions, nothing short of slithering her way under him, and he follows her lead.

Soon, he's hovering over her, slowly bringing his face down to hers, one of his hands traveling lightly over her chest, while hers remains under his shirt, tracing the bumpy curve of his back, one vertebra at a time.

"_Easy_," she adds against his mouth, briefly nipping at his bottom lip with her teeth, causing his fingers to become bolder, running over her breast through the fabric of her top.

Her body doesn't care much about their power play, her nipple soon hardening; each time his thumb casually flicks over it, little sparks of pleasure shoot down her spine, adding to the heat already gathering low, but she keeps her breathing slow and measured, her face composed.

"Sure," Peter says, his voice remarkably steady, still smirking a little. "Me too."

When her legs sneak up to enclose his hips between her knees, he merely blinks, his fingers leaving her breast and moving south, palm up. They slide under her, between the mattress and her underwear, _cupping_ a feel. Her mouth quivers, fighting the urge to smile as she mimics him, her hand slipping inside the back of his boxers to cup a feel of her own, sinking her short nails into flesh and muscles.

Deciding to up the ante, she uses the clasp of her legs to push him _down_, successfully pressing his swelling erection against her as she rolls her hips upwards to meet him, creating a delicious friction. The smile freezes on his lips, his eyes darkening significantly as his grip becomes nothing short of possessive over her backside. Soon, he's _squeezing_ her, pinning her to him and adding momentum to the next slow meeting of their hips. Already, their breathing is louder, inhaling the same hot air, lips inches apart, eyes still locked.

Even though there is absolutely no way this '_waiting until Sunday_' crap is going to happen, there is an odd intensity to the moment, as if they had waited far longer than a couple of days. Considering how long they _had_ waited before getting to this point of their relationship, it isn't entirely surprising; the change is recent enough for Olivia to be consumed with the same longing she felt on that first night, mere days ago.

This craving combines with her awareness of how good he feels, how good he makes her feel, enough to excite everything in her. She is just as aware that the intensity of their physical connection is directly linked to that other bond, that bond she'd thought lost for good, less than a week ago.

It's anything but lost, though, especially after spending so many hours talking to each other. With every story shared, every anecdote, and even with every bad joke of his, Olivia feels herself becoming more and more entwined with him, feeling both lighter and heavier as a result of carrying more of him in her heart, the way he carries her, too.

His body might excite hers on a mere cellular level, what feeds her most profound needs is this closeness, this guttural knowledge that Peter _sees_ her, even her broken parts, and instead of pushing him away, it only seems to make him want her more.

Being the recipient of such attention and devotion baffles her, even as it mirrors how she feels about him.

There definitely is an added element of thrill today that comes with their playfulness, daring each other still, stubbornly wanting to be the one who will make the other cave. And as Peter shifts over her to adjust his position, she is more than ready to meet him move for move.

He grabs her wrist to extract her hand from inside his boxers, pinning their fingers upon her pillow, a move he's rather fond of, she's noticed. She barely has time to focus on that thought, though, as he's shifted enough to gain better access, his other hand swiftly disappearing inside her panties.

His palm presses upon her warmth, his fingertips barely dipping inside of her, and although she manages by some miracle to barely shudder at his touch, what he finds there is enough. A hint of smug satisfaction flashes in his eyes at the wet feel of her, confirming that she's just as affected as he is by this ridiculous little game.

She might be strong-willed, she's also very much human, so that when he uses her own slickness to run over her collection of nerves, his palm applying just the right amount of moving pressure, she has no control over the way she bucks against and into him. As her entire body floods with heat, the intoxicating, overpowering kind that shoots straight from her core and spreads all over and beyond, she hears herself let out the oddest noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a moan.

He brings his face down to hers, his nose once again pressed to her cheekbone, and when she cups his cheek with her free hand, the other one still entrapped in his, she feels the returning smile stretching his skin. She cannot tell if it's a smile of endearment, amusement, or if he's feeling prematurely victorious; all she knows is that she's going to wipe it off his face.

Olivia allows herself a few moments to _feel_, first. To feel him against her as he warms her up from the inside out, in ways that have little to do with his fingers on her. There is no denying that he is good at this, though, his hot breath already joining his teasing hand in overwhelming her senses, leaving her face and drifting lower over soft skin, stopping in the crook of her neck.

He focuses on a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of her jaw, the feel of his stubble lightly scratching her skin firing up her nerves, soon replaced by soft lips, then wet heat, as his tongue traces slow patterns that follow the rhythm of his hand between her legs, her breathing getting heavier and louder as her heart rate keeps on rising.

It would be so easy, so ridiculously easy, to surrender to this heat, to surrender to him.

When he keeps on moving south and captures one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking at it right through the thin fabric, she moans again as she shudders and arches against him, her free hand now clenching a fistful of his shirt over his shoulder blade, perspiration starting to glisten upon her flushing skin.

She's never been one to give up without a fight, though.

With her next intake of breath, she traps the air inside her lungs, forcing herself to refocus, trying to clear her mind before her body completely takes over. She commands her limbs, conjuring all of her self-control to make herself become completely still again, with the exception of her hand; she lets go of his shirt, grabbing his fingers in hers, wordlessly asking him to stop.

He does so almost right away, seeming a little thrown off by her sudden stillness. This is confirmed a second later when he raises his head, soon moving back up, not yet concerned but curious, searching her gaze.

He's not the only one with a good poker face, though, and she uses hers now, calmly staring back at him, trying to ignore the thumping of her heart against her ears. Against her ears, beneath her ribs, and between her legs, where their hands remain, not to mention the searing, blushing skin of her face that gives her away, no matter how stern her expression.

Without as much as a smile, she tightens her grip on his hand and starts pulling it upwards, while her other hand slips from his loose clasp upon the pillow, going in the opposite direction, back between their legs –his, this time. As soon as she's brought his hand up to her parted lips, she gives him a sharp look, before running the tip of her tongue over the slick pad of his fingers.

There is a crack in the mask, his eyes darkening again, and his entire body tenses at the feel of her hand sneaking inside his boxers to grab ahold of him. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, swallowing convulsively as she begins stroking him, before taking two of his fingers into her mouth, rolling her tongue around them.

When she starts sucking on them, _hard_, she knows she's won.

His body breaks into waves of shudders, his forehead dropping upon hers as a low, guttural grunt escapes his throat, thrusting into her hand. Moments later, he's pulling his fingers out of her mouth, and they sink into her hair, twisting it in a tight grip as his other arm slips beneath her to circle her waist. He pulls her flush against him, her fingers unrelenting in their caress, causing him to roll into her again. His lips nothing short of crash upon hers with a pleading moan, his tongue not demanding entrance as much as begging for it.

Olivia grants him his wish, opening up to him, seeking him back with equal fervor as they ripple between the sheets. She couldn't have felt further from gloating over this obvious victory, physically _aching _for him now, her hips rising to meet each of his thrusts, sinking deeper into the warmth, barely able to gasp for air through their heated kissing.

Their next moves are both feverish and calculated, working together to pull her panties off her legs, just as hurriedly combining their effort to push his boxers down his hips, and she lets out a throaty moan when he pushes himself into her.

While their frenzy makes them almost clumsy at first, it is matched by their keen awareness of each other's body, of how to shift and move to increase proximity, resulting in an odd yet thrilling coordination. They sway together a few times, before his thrusting motions halt; she's wrapped herself around him like vine, her legs tightly intertwined over his thighs, pushing him deeper and keeping him there.

His breath is ragged and hot against the side of her face, his kneading hand possessive over her breast, having pushed most of her shirt up. Her own arm has slipped inside his shirt, feeling the skin of his back getting clammier and clammier beneath her palm. She digs her fingernails into the shifting muscles of his shoulder blade as he begins to move again, with some difficulty now, given the way she clutching him to her. She has no intention of loosening her grip, though, and he knows it.

They make do with the firm clasp of her legs, keeping their bodies almost painfully close as he rolls into her more than he thrusts, and although the rippling meeting of their hips lacks proper rhythm, it's passionate and driven. The hold she has on his lower half, she mirrors on his upper body, keeping him pinned to her with that arm across his back. Her fingers are buried deep in his damp hair to insure his face won't leave hers, needing him closer, closer, _closer_ as pleasure swells and thumps like a mad pulsing heart.

She really shouldn't worry about keeping him close, though. His hold on her might be a bit unsteady, it remains strong, his every breath, shudder and moan, all telltales of his yearning for her. It isn't long before the rhythm of his hips becomes even more hectic; combined with the way he shakes against her, Olivia knows it won't be long, just as overwhelmed as her by the carnal intensity of it all.

She's getting there, but he'll get there first, a realization that sends a surge of raw satisfaction through her.

"Olivia..." he soon moans against the skin of her face, as if in agony, admitting defeat.

She knows a mere nothing would be enough to make him come, but she wants to prolong this, not because she's greedy for her own pleasure, though; she greedy for more of _him_, of them.

"It's okay," she rasps, her fingers leaving his hair to cup his cheek, before using their momentum to roll them sideways.

She doesn't turn them completely over, this time, stopping their motion once they are on their side, relaxing her various holds on him, easing the clasp of her legs and arms around him. It isn't much, but it does lessen some of the pressure without putting any distance or space between them.

Peter lets out a wobbly breath against her skin, having instinctively buried his face in the crook of her neck as they adjust to this new position. Already, both his hands have slipped inside her shirt, gliding over her shivering back. Their movements have slowed down significantly, but they're far from being idle, rocking almost languidly now.

Her fingers once again in his hair, she tugs on it once, twice, and he responds to her call, bringing his face back to hers. She shivers at the raw passion in his eyes, at the knowledge that she's the sole reason for the way his every trait constricts as if in pain. Her fingers move, then, trailing over his parted lips, pushing damp hair from his forehead, caressing the crease between his eyes; if love left fingerprints, hers would be found all over his skin.

He's brought his own hand to her face, his other arm wrapped around her lower back to press her more firmly to him, and when he pulls her even closer, he kisses her like she's the air his lungs were craving for. He's picking up speed, using his hold on her to increase the pressure between them, and she gladly follows. Before long, her pleasure is swelling again, and she has to let go of his lips when her entire body flushes with heat, meeting his gaze as she breathes out his name.

This, above all else, seems to unravel him completely.

He lets out another constricted moan, rolling them over once more, and without the tight clasp of her legs, he's able to fully thrust in and out of her, his cadence driven by pure need, now. She clings to him, enthralled by his craving for her, and although she tries matching his moves, he's obviously surrendered to the feel of her.

Deciding to help him along, she deliberately clenches around him as she uses both sets of nails upon him, grazing his clammy back while her other hand does the same upon his scalp, breathing out his name again, right into his ear this time, and he simply loses it.

His body stutters and stills, shuddering almost violently against her as his heat unfurls within her and he chokes out her name, before going completely limp over her.

Moments later, he grunts again, the displeased sound muffled against her sweaty neck, and she wants to roll her eyes again. _Men_.

Despite the discomfort she now feels, having been so close to her own climax, only to be left mostly crushed under the dead weight of her disgruntled lover, Olivia cannot help but smile, her fingers lightly running over his back. For one thing, she highly doubts Peter is going to roll over and go back to sleep – a situation she has found herself in before, although never with this particular man.

Also...

"I win," she whispers in his ear, knowing he can hear the smile in her voice.

He grunts again, before nibbling the soft skin of her neck. Then, he's on the move, still shaky and breathless as he descends on her like a man on a mission, disappearing under the covers.

She hardly calmed down herself, and the sensation of his tongue soon dipping into her navel is enough to send her electrified body back into overdrive, as if he'd grabbed her from beneath and _pulled_ her under, back into the heat.

And as he moves lower and lower, she sinks deeper and deeper.

He's as swift as he's efficient; she barely has time to take a deep, wobbly breath that he is literally grabbing her and pulling her to him. By the time she's exhaling, the air rushes out of her in another deep, throaty moan. Already, every fiber of her being is slave to the hot, hot feel of his mouth and tongue upon her, her fingers twisting the linen in a death grip as she arches, her lower body attempting to leave the bed.

He's keeping her tethered to him, though, even as he helps her soar, both his hands squeezing her buttocks, fingers digging into her flesh and eliciting a nerve response, even as his tongue elicits a much greater one.

Despite the fact that she cares about very little right now beside the waves of pleasure surging from her core and flooding the rest of her limbs, that part of her brain that is always so fond of patterns begins to notice that there _is_ an odd yet deliberate pattern to what he's doing.

He's already on the second letter 'e' by the time she catches up with what he's doing –tracing his _name_ down there, the arrogant bastard. And as she ripples and writhes against and into him, her heavy breath and moans echoing through the room, she pictures him with perfect clarity, grinning through it all, a vision that manages to both irritate her and drive her on.

She _might_ have made it all the way through his last name, just to prove some kind of point. As it turns out, she barely makes it past the second letter, after he decides to give the 'i' a _dot_ by sucking on hers, and she comes so hard, he will have bruises to prove it, where she dug her heels into his back.

She's still basking in the aftermath when he emerges from under the covers, having followed his slow ascension through the feel of his kisses scattered upon her shivering skin. She's not in the least surprised when she meets his eyes again as soon as she opens hers. Judging by his satisfied little smile, he's back to feeling exceedingly smug.

"Stalemate?" He suggests.

Olivia scoffs, answering by grabbing the hem of his shirt. He helps her pull it over his head, before following her lead and letting her roll them over.

Straddling his legs, she quickly makes to discard of her own shirt, peeved at the sticky feel of it. As she does so, Peter's hands move over her thighs, undoubtedly feeling the tremors traveling beneath her skin, her entire body still tingling from the remnants of a particularly good orgasm that has left her boneless and overly sensitive.

Freed from the drenched fabric of her shirt and feeling a lot more comfortable, she brings her hands down upon his chest, anything but done with him, playfully digging her nails into soft muscles.

"What's wrong, Bishop?" She teases him, somewhat breathlessly. "Afraid you won't be able to keep up?" She punctuates her dare with quick rise of her eyebrow, although his body is already showing signs that keeping 'up' isn't going to be a problem here.

He doesn't even bother with a reply, reaching up behind her instead, threading his fingers through her hair to pull her down to him.

And once again, she lets herself be pulled, her own fingers curling in his hair, smiling broadly when he chooses to nuzzle her nose first, before kissing the tip of it, saving her smile for last.

...

Of all the road trips Peter has taken in his life, he's never done so little driving.

Granted, he's used to doing it alone, with nothing better to do but to drive; considering _who_ he's traveling with this week, the opportunities for distractions are endless. They have a definite tendency to lose track of time, as they lose themselves in each other, both in stories and in ways that require fewer words to be spoken.

They barely leave their room on Wednesday –barely leave the _bed_, if not for the occasional bathroom breaks, or that one time Peter did drive to the nearest gas station and bought them an avalanche of junk food, along with a few bottles of drinks rich in electrolytes. They spend most of the day talking. Or, not really talking, depending on the hour.

On the next day, they are slightly more productive, making it to Ohio, settling in a little tavern that, according to Walter, '_serves marvelous French onion soup!'_

He was not lying about that, although Peter is way more enamored with the woman by his side than he is with the soup –one (now empty) bowl they've been sharing, like they do every other dish they ordered, or even that booth they're not exactly sitting in.

'Cuddling in' would be more appropriate.

They have officially given up all pretenses. No more 'sitting on opposite sides of the table' nonsense, not allowing much distance between their bodies at all, which, after the day they had yesterday, seem unwilling to part much anyway.

While Peter isn't surprised by his constant need to be touching her in any way, shape, or form, he is surprised by how..._snuggly_ Oliva has become. Surprised, but undeniably thrilled.

This is a side of Olivia he's only glimpsed before, all sweetness and smiles –and not the small kind either. _These _smiles are so bright and wide, they make her eyes crinkle. For as long as he's known her, he always assumed this warm gentleness was reserved for her sister and niece only.

He's more than a little entranced by the fact that he's become the sole recipient of it at the moment.

When he was with her alternate, he believed the changes and her chipper demeanor to be the result of being with him –an arrogant thought that still makes his insides throb with shame. Now that he's allowed to see the _genuine_, happier side of her, he cannot believe he ever fell for that act.

Sure, there is an inevitable familiarity in her giddiness that reminds him of _her_, but once again, the differences are numerous, and painfully obvious. Olivia's mood is more akin to having inhaled some of Walter's best Brown Betty by accident, than to having changed her outlook on life altogether, a comparison he's comfortable making, since it perfectly describes his own state of mind.

He's so utterly content to be _here_, her body pressing against his as much his presses against hers, one arm wrapped around her waist, his hand having lost all utility besides feeling her and the way her stomach twitches every time she chuckles or laughs. One of her hands is equally useless, having taken residency upon his thigh, not exactly teasing, but not doing anything to keep him calm either.

Let's just say he's glad the lighting is dim, and that the table masks most of their lower halves.

Even though they're still on their first pint of local brew, their behavior resembles two people who may have had a little too much to drink, in that carefree, incoherent way one easily adopts when tipsy.

There is no real logic to their conversation, no point at all, having spent the last fifteen minutes going from speculating over Broyles and Nina's rumored affair, to discussing how amazing potatoes are because they can be cooked in so many different ways –three of which are on the table right now, baked, mashed, and in the form of fries.

After sustaining themselves on gas station food these past twenty-four hours, and considering the amount of calories they burned, they scarf down on the dishes with gusto. Peter is aware that they are being _disgustingly_ cute, regularly interrupting their mindless chatting to taste the food on each other's lips, and he's more than okay with it.

Of the two of them, Olivia definitely is the one hitting the brakes whenever he starts getting a little too carried away.

"She's gonna kick us out for indecent PDA," she says at some point after their waitress left their table again, having brought them another bowl of onion soup, with a side of glaring disapproval.

The lady looks old enough to have already been working here back when Walter had to have found this place, and if the narrow-eyed, pinched lips expression she wears every time she comes back with more food is any indication, she most likely objects to premarital sex. To the marital kind, too, probably.

Peter doesn't give a damn, chuckling softly against the side of her neck. They weren't even doing anything _that_ risqué this time around; when she'd brought them their order of chicken wings a while ago, he'd had Olivia pushed to the end of the booth, firmly pinned to the wall.

"You could always flash your badge and say we're here undercover," he suggests, still more interested in peppering her neck with kisses than in the topic itself. Upon her stomach, his hand is getting frisky again, his fingers tentatively sneaking under the hem of her shirt.

He feels her breathless chuckle beneath his palm, her grip on his thigh briefly tightening as she shivers deliciously, and even though there is no way she would ever compromise her integrity by taking this too far, she gets back at him by sliding her hand higher on his leg, making him nearly whimper against her skin, wishing they hadn't left their room today.

The sound of her ringing phone is absolutely unwelcome, as well as absolutely predictable.

Olivia twists in his arms to regain better use of her limbs, throwing him a look. "You know this is your fault, right?" She feels the need to point out, pursing her lips as she gets her phone out and checks the screen.

"You're the one who called them and requested daily updates," he reminds her.

By the time he was coming back from his brief trip to the gas station the previous day, she was on the phone with the bureau; as it turned out, the Fringe Division had opened a new case. Although it was nothing drastic enough to require them to drive back to Boston, Olivia's restlessness at being _away_ while she could be out there investigating was to be expected.

Figuring out a way to take her mind off work again had not been too difficult.

Olivia chooses to ignore his remark today, bringing the phone to her ear. "Dunham," she greets her interlocutor, already more focused on the call than on him.

For a moment, Peter watches her profile. He's as affected by the sight of her effortlessly becoming 'Agent Dunham' as he was moments ago by her wandering fingers. She's not aware of it, and he has no intention of telling her, but there is something comforting in all these tiny proofs she gives him, proofs that she's herself and no one else.

She lets him see behind the mask, all the while making it clear she still very much is a gun carrying federal agent.

Peter is _not_ a federal agent, though, barely a consultant on occasions –definitely not this week; he therefore has no obligation to act professional. Which is why he swiftly resumes what he was doing before they were rudely interrupted.

She has moved slightly –very slightly- away from him, her body turned more towards the wall, now, although his arm remains around her waist. He's not paying one bit of attention to what she's saying, preferring to bring his free hand to her hair, pushing it slightly aside to expose the curve of her neck. He dips down to brush her skin, and she reacts to the touch, as if tickled. She doesn't make any indication that she wants him to stop, though, so he continues, inducing shivers with his lips and breath alone, being intentionally slow.

After pushing more of her hair aside, he halts his movements, having revealed the tattoo inked in the skin of her nape. Although this is not the first time he notices it this week, it _is_ the first time he's not otherwise occupied, finally able to see more than glimpses of it.

Peter traces the contour of this strange, fiery star, troubled by its presence alone. Granted, until recently, he hadn't had any reason to see the back of her neck, not since the early days of their partnership when his father used to stick metal rods into her spine on a regular basis. While she could have decided to get a tattoo at some point during this two and a half years lapse, it doesn't quite fit her.

Within seconds, Olivia seems to notice the way his focus has diverged and converged upon her nape, and she tenses against him. Before long, she's trying to move away. There isn't much room for her to put distance between them, but he gives her some space anyway, his hand dropping from her neck, while his other arm falls from around her to rest limply at her side.

She's wrapping up her phone conversation, now, her own fingers already up in her hair, distractedly running over the tattoo, the way he was only moments ago. From the pronounced pursing of her lips, added to the loss of colors in her cheeks, Peter is starting to understand _when_ she must have gotten it, and his insides twist at the thought of it being forced upon her skin.

Silence settles between them as soon as she hangs up.

He searches her face, but she's avoiding his eyes, clearly displeased, chewing on the inside of her lip. He doesn't speak, or prod. She proved him many times these past few days that she's comfortable enough with him to share what's on her heart or mind, but he owes it to her not to question her silence when there are topics she doesn't want to discuss.

He does start leaning into her again, his chest gently pressing against her shoulder blade. It's not a nudge, not exactly. He feels the tension in her muscles through this small contact alone. She begins to relax again after a few moments, though, leaning back into him, and he sighs, closing his eyes.

"The tattoo's hers," she confirms eventually in a low voice. "She isn't that fond of them, generally speaking, but it was Frank's idea, to get a matching set for their anniversary. She liked the idea of being marked his, as much as he was marked hers."

It is Peter's turn to tense as his thoughts inevitably turn on _her_, on that woman who was in a committed relationship by the time she came over here and decided to mark _him_ hers without his consent.

"I keep forgetting it's there, or that it's not even mine," Olivia continues. "I know I should hate it for what it represents, but to be honest, sometimes there still are a lot of little things that get mixed up in my mind, details from her life I think are mine, until I remember they're not."

Despite the thick tension now surrounding them, they are fully leaning against one another again, his cheek resting upon hers. She hasn't spoken about her time Over There since the elevator.

This, how she was made to live her alternate's life for a few weeks, is something Peter knows virtually nothing about. He cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like for her, to have this whole other set of memories in her head, memories that apparently still blend with hers on occasions.

"What was it like?" He asks after another stretch of silence. "Being her?"

He half-expects her to tense up again, to choose not to answer. She doesn't. Her hand moves instead, coming to rest upon his. As she intertwines their fingers together, he brings his arm back around her waist, tightening his hold on her.

"Freeing," she says simply. There is no longing in her voice, no embarrassment either, just honesty. "And it had nothing to do with her being shallow, because she's not. Considering the state of her world, and the tragedy that struck her family a few years back, she's not completely unburdened either but..." She shrugs. "I don't know. There's a light there I can't remember ever having."

Peter shifts, keeping their bodies close, but he needs to see her face. She doesn't meet his eyes, lost in her thoughts.

"I guess...part of it comes from the fact that her mom is still alive," she muses. "Mine died when I was fourteen, but even before that..." She shrugs a shoulder, briefly pursing her lips with a tilt of her head, a fake dismissal that breaks his heart. She finally looks up. "After _him_, it's like something in her had broken, like he'd...taken something from her." She averts her eyes again, her gaze falling upon the dishes getting cold in front of them, forgotten for the time being.

Olivia had talked about her mother, the day before. Night had fallen by then, because it was easier to whisper these words in semi-darkness than in daylight, as it concealed some of their sorest scars.

She told him about how, after shooting her stepfather, her mom barely looked at her anymore; how she'd sunk so deep in depression that when she was diagnosed with cancer, a few years later, she didn't have the strength to fight it, not even for her daughters.

Honoring their unspoken oath of reciprocity, Peter told her about his mom, too, about the one who'd spent years fighting against the same darkness. He told her about the bottles, stashed all over their house in places _she_ thought he wouldn't find; how he'd hunted for them, once, and how his mom had watched as he shattered them all against the garage's wall; how she'd bravely stayed sober for nearly five weeks afterwards, until Peter's birthday came around, a day that always pushed her back into the dark.

Confessing these memories to each other and to the night left them feeling raw and exposed, but they found the same solace in this shared understanding. In the realization that these scars they tried so hard to hide, for fear that they might reveal too much, these scars were already etched upon their lover's heart.

In the aftermath of that one particular talk, they'd found solace in one another, too, seeking to comfort and to heal, maybe. There was a beautiful, aching intensity to their love making, conveying through touch the kind of emotions words couldn't begin to grasp.

Above all, what they found in each other was an unquestionable sense of belonging, of _home_.

When Olivia speaks again, today, it's not to him; not really.

"On the Other Side, my mom –_her_ mom, she was whole," she says. "Even after losing Rachel and her baby, she never gave up."

Peter watches her, lost in memories that are both hers and someone else's, unable not to think about this other similarity. They had lost their mothers, on this side, both orphans before the age of twenty, since Walter had been as good as dead to him at the time.

Yet, through a succession of events that were as inexplicable as they were odd, both he and Olivia were given the chance to see them again, these mothers from another world. Other versions of them, undeniably, but if Peter's mistakes proved anything, it is that the heart can be deceptive, especially when the love involved runs deep.

"Maybe that's nature's way of seeking balance," Peter ponders after a while, his voice low and soft. "My mom Over There, she never gave up either, even though I was gone. Maybe living in a crumbling world makes people more resilient."

More desperate to hold on to life.

Olivia moves slightly, looking up at him. "How long were you with her, Over There? Your mother?" Like him, her voice is soft, as if afraid to speak the words.

He shakes his head a little. "Not long. A few hours, maybe." His voice actually falters on the last word, swallowing past the growing lump in his throat.

Meeting his mom, his _biological _mom, was one of the most surreal experiences of his life. He'd thought about her, of course, after learning the truth about his origins, thought about both versions of her, the one he'd unintentionally driven to an early grave, and the one he'd hoped hadn't met the same fate in that other world he tried to accept as his.

Yet, when he'd agreed to cross back over with the man he'd called Father for a handful of days, Peter hadn't thought about his mother at all. For the most part, his thoughts had been directed towards this universe he was about to leave, coming from a place of hurt and bitterness.

_Good riddance_, or something of the sort, so arrogantly convinced he wouldn't miss it at all.

He hadn't been awake a full day that the repercussions of his choice were hitting him hard, as he realized that he didn't feel any less out of place in this universe than he did in the other one, already longing for what he'd lost in his hasty escape, for what he'd given up for good.

For whom he'd left behind.

It quickly became clear that being able to see his _mother_ again was going to be his only consolation, as he tried persuading his aching heart that it was enough, had to be enough.

But the truth is, by the time Olivia was prudently reaching up for him, one hand on his nape, the other splayed upon his heart, he was already gone.

Peter sees it again, today, that haunted look in her eyes. What squeezes his heart is the knowledge that she's hurting for _him_.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, with a shake of her head and a small, painful smile.

Peter frowns, realizing that she isn't simply apologizing for the pain he feels at the loss of his mother. He searches her gaze, but she's already averted her eyes. "What for?"

She merely shakes her head again, but the meaning behind her demeanor becomes clear.

She blames herself for how little time he got to spend with his mom, a reaction that is typically hers.

While she had been the one who'd asked him to leave it all behind and come back with her, the choice had been his and no one else's, certainly not hers.

His hand finds its way up to her face, cupping her cheek and weaving his fingers through her hair to pull her to him, until they are forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He shakes his head against hers. "Don't," he says softly. "I had to come home. I know she understands that."

Peter _had_ left his mother a note before they'd escaped the apartment, his message succinct but genuine, telling her what he just told Olivia; that he loved her, but that he had to go home, and that he was sorry.

Like the rest of his time Over There, the few hours he spent with his mom feel more like a dream than anything else, now. While he will always feel a twinge of guilt and pain at the thought of her, he means it when he says he _knows_ she understands.

The version of her that had raised him might have been fighting a darker battle, she might have given up, she had instilled in him values that are inherent to any Elizabeth Bishop, no matter the universe.

Values that lead him to be inexorably drawn back to family, no matter how far he runs.

And as Olivia moves, shifting her body to better wrap her arm around him and press her face to his neck, breathing deep against his skin, Peter has never felt more certain of his choice.

* * *

**A/N: **You know what's ridiculous? The fact that I spend hours and _hours_ writing and editing these things, yet still find myself crying over the same bits during my very last round of edits. Ridiculous.

To give credit where credit is due, I have been (re)reading a LOT of old fanfictions these past few months, and the idea of Peter leaving a note to his mom Over There definitely comes from a story called "_Where a world ends and where the other begins" _by sam carter 1013, which I obviously recommend if you haven't read it yet.

You know me and reviews. I love them almost as much as I love writing Peter nuzzling Olivia's face. ALMOST.


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